RUSSIAN    AUTHORS'    LIBRARY 
LEONID  ANDREYEV     -,       , 

WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


TRANSLATED  BY 
ARCHIBALD  J.  WOLFE 


NEW  YORK 

INTERNATIONAL  BOOK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
1920 


Copyright    1919 

By 
International  Book  Publishing  Co. 


PREFACE. 

Leonid  Andreyev  was  born  in  Orel,  the  capital  of  the 
Russian  province  of  the  same  name,  on  August  21,  1871. 
He  was  ten  years  younger  than  his  future  patron  and  friend 
Maxim  Gorki.  He  died  on  September  12,  1919,  in  Fin 
land,  an  exile  from  his  beloved  chaos-ridden  fatherland. 

His  father,  a  Russian  of  pure  blood,  by  profession  a 
surveyor,  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  physical  vigor.  He 
died  at  the  early  age  of  42  as  the  result  of  a  brain-stroke. 
His  mother,  a  woman  of  much  refinement  and  culture,  was 
of  Polish  ancestry. 

The  earliest  years  of  Andreyev's  life  were  spent  in 
close  affiliation  with  the  stage,  through  the  personal  ac 
quaintance  of  his  parents  with  the  leading  stage  folks  of 
the  province. 

He  was  a  poor  scholar  and  loved  to  play  "hookey," 
preferring  the  great  outdoors  to  the  crowded  class-room. 
His  marks  were  very  poor  as  the  result.  But  he  was  a 
voracious  reader  of  literature.  His  latter  years  in  high 
school  (gymnasium)  were  influenced  by  Tolstoy's  works 
on  non-resistance,  by  Schopenhauer,  and  by  the  first  works 
of  Maxim  Gorki.  The  death  of  his  father  and  the  seeds 
of  the  pessimistic  philosophy  gave  the  inner  life  of  the 
budding  novelist  a  morose  and  pessimistic  direction.  In 
his  teens  Leonid  Andreyev  made  three  unsuccessful  at 
tempts  at  suicide. 

It  has  been  the  fate  of  Leonid  Andreyev  to  live  through 
four  distinct  phases  of  Russian  history,  each  of  which  has 
contributed  to  the  shaping  of  his  art. 

In  the  latter  eighties  and  the  early  nineties  he  had  passed 


through  one  of  the  most  disheartening  periods  in  the  life 
of  the  Russian  people,  when  under  the  crushing  heel  of 
the  despotic  Tsar  Alexander  III  all  initiative  and  all  aspira 
tions  of  the  mind  were  ruthlessly  stifled.  It  was  the  period 
of  shameful  and  soulless  years,  with  miserable  people,  re 
lentless  persecutors,  obedient  slaves  and  a  few  hunted 
rebels. 

The  horror  of  this  era  of  nightmare  weighed  heavily 
on  the  sensitive  soul  of  young  Andreyev  and  he  attempted 
suicide  in  1894  by  shooting  himself  near  the  heart.  The 
attempt  was  unsuccessful,  but  left  behind  an  affliction  of 
the  heart,  of  which  he  died  twenty-five  years  later. 

In  his  student  years  (Andreyev  took  up  the  study  of 
law  in  the  University  of  Moscow)  he  fell  under  the  in 
fluence  of  Tchekhov  and  of  Gorki.  Andreyev  did  not  in 
his  earlier  years  dream  of  becoming  a  writer.  His  interest 
in  art  led  him  to  painting  and  his  pictures  were  exhibited 
in  the  independent  salons  and  much  praised.  His  early 
stories  were  printed  in  the  newspapers  of  Moscow  under 
the  nom-de-plume  of  James  Lynch. 

Andreyev's  first  story  printed  under  that  nom-de-plume 
in  1898  aroused  the  interest  of  Maxim  Gorki,  who  sought 
out  the  future  novelist  and  aided  him  greatly  with  advice 
and  suggestions. 

/  But  between  the  two — between  the  singer  of  the  people, 

/     the  singer  of  humanity — Gorki,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 

/       artist  of  individuality,  the  painter  of  thought,  Andreyev, 

there  is  a  vast  difference  and  divergence.    One  is  the  cap- 

1       tive  of  the  realities  of  life,  in  which  he  loses  himself,  the 

\      other  is  the  captive  of  fancies,  of  ever  new  problems  of  the 

\     soul,  which  he  endeavors  to  illustrate  by  abstract  schema- 

ytism,  but  which  he  ultimately  fails  to  solve. 

In  this  phase  of  Russian  history  falls  the  series  of 
Andreyev's  stories  in  which  he  chastises  the  Russian  intelli- 


Ill 


gent  hypochondriac  and  the  follower  of  Tchekhov.  Maxim 
Gorki  is  to  him  the  personification  of  the  joy  of  life  and 
of  the  will  to  battle,  which  permeates  the  earlier  writings 
of  Andreyev. 

The  stormy  period  of  the  political  convulsion  which 
shook  Russia  in  the  wake  of  the  Japanese  war,  evoked  a 
number  of  beautiful  stories  and  essays  from  Andreyev's 
pen,  thrilled  and  aflame  with  the  love  of  budding  freedom. 
But  even  here  the  pessimism  of  Andreyev  breaks  through. 
In  his  charming  story  of  the  French  Revolution,  with 
which  we  begin  this  present  volume,  "When  the  King  Loses 
His  Head,"  when  liberty  is  in  danger,  when  the  Twentieth, 
the  symbol  of  monarchy,  is  in  the  toils  of  the  people,  here 
and  there  the  crowd  cries  "Long  Live  the  Twenty-First," 
ready  to  resume  the  badge  of  servitude. 

In  the  "Abyss"  Andreyev  portrays  the  shameful  fall  of 
the  young  idealist,  but  in  "The  Marseillaise,"  the  prose- 
poem  with  which  we  conclude  the  present  volume,  written 
in  1905,  Andreyev  pictures  the  apotheosis  of  a  hero  hidden 
behind  the  absurd  exterior  of  a  physical  weakling.  "The 
Marseillaise"  is  an  overture  to  the  stirring  drama  of  the 
brief  but  glorious  epoch  of  the  popular  risings  after  the 
Japanese  war. 

But  the  monarchic  power  crushed  the  spirit  of  the 
people.  A  period  of  unparalleled  persecutions,  executions 
and  repressions  followed.  "The  Story  of  the  Seven  that 
were  Hanged"  is  characteristic  of  this  terrible  period  which 
preceded  the  World  War.  This  story  is  dedicated  to  Tolstoy, 
and  its  motto  might  well  be  "Fear  not  them  that  kill  the 
body,  but  cannot  kill  the  soul."  Some  of  the  passages  of 
this  story  are  so  stirring  that  it  is  impossible  to  read  them 
without  shedding  a  tear. 

After  the  fall  of  the  Romanovs,  a  brief  period  of  in 
toxicating  sense  of  freedom  overwhelmed  Russia.  It  was 


IV 

not  the  time  for  literature.  It  was  the  time  for  action.  But 
all  too  soon  chaos  ensued,  and  the  artist  dropped  his  art  to 
defend  outraged  humanity.  It  was  away  from  his  coun 
try,  with  the  whole  world  arrayed  against  Russia,  and  with 
Russia  arrayed  against  herself,  that  Leonid  Andreyev  fell 
the  victim  of  heart  failure,  induced,  as  the  brief  despatches 
from  Finland  state,  by  the  shock  of  a  bomb  exploding  in 
his  vicinity. 


The  heroes  of  Andreyev's  stories  are  "people  who 
stand  apart,"  solitary,  lonely  characters,  walking  among 
men  like  planets  among  planets,  and  a  baneful  atmosphere 
surrounds  them.  The  idea  of  most  of  these  stories  and  of 
most  of  his  dramas  is  the  conflict  of  the  personality  with 
fate  and  with  the  falsehood  which  man  introduces  into  his 
fate. 

He  has  a  symbolic  story  named  "The  Wall" :  it  is  the 
barrier  which  men  cannot  pass.  The  Wall  is  all  blood 
stained;  at  its  base  crawl  lepers;  centuries,  nations  strive 
to  climb  upon  it.  But  the  wall  is  immobile,  while  ever  new 
heaps  of  corpses  are  piled  up  alongside. 

There  are  walls  between  the  closest  relatives  in  the 
stories  and  dramas  of  Andreyev.  Frequently  the  characters 
depicted  by  him  are  insane.  Freedom  becomes  an  illusion, 
a  tragic  mockery  of  mankind. 

In  the  story  of  "Father  Vassili"  we  are  told  of  an  ill- 
fated  parish  priest.  Misfortunes  fall  upon  his  head  with 
an  ominous  purposeful  frequency.  Finally  his  only  son  is 
drowned.  The  mother  takes  to  drink  to  drown  her  sorrow. 
In  her  insane  frenzy  she  conceives  again  and  bears  an 
idiot.  The  new  child,  a  Jittle  monster,  brings  an  atmos 
phere  of  horror  into  the  home  and  dominates  the  whole 
household.  The  drunken  mother  accidentally  sets  the  home 
on  fire  and  dies  a  victim  of  the  conflagration.  All  through 


these  misfortunes  Father  Vassili  believes  in  his  Maker  with 
the  depth  and  passion  of  despair.  But  little  by  little  this 
faith  and  this  despair  pass  into  insanity.  During  a  re 
quiem  mass  over  the  body  of  a  villager  Father  Vassili  com 
mands  the  corpse  to  arise.  He  calls  upon  God  to  sustain 
him  and  to  work  a  miracle.  He  is  left  alone  with  the  corpse, 
the  worshippers  having  fled  in  terror.  He  inclines  over 
the  body  and  sees  in  the  coffin  the  mocking  features  of 
his  idiot  child.  A  crash  of  thunder  rends  the  sky.  It 
seems  to  Father  Vassili  that  heaven  and  earth  are  crash 
ing  into  nothingness,  he  flees  precipitately  into  the  high 
way  and  falls  dead.  The  utter  solitude  of  the  man,  the 
monstrous  domination  of  elementary  powers  arrayed  against 
him,  a  moment  of  consciousness  of  oneness  with  the  divine 
— and  insanity,  these  are  the  constant  horrible  and  tragic 
features  of  Andreyev's  art.  ^A^Jt/^JL 
\V$  cX^-Vx; 
In  his  stories  dealing  with  biblical  characters,  Judas 
Iscariot  and  Lazarus,  we  have  horror  and  dreams  again. 
Judas  Iscariot  and  the  Saviour  are  pictured  as  twins  nailed 
to  the  same  cross  and  wearing  the  same  crown  of  thorns. 
The  traitor  in  Andreyev's  story  loves  Jesus  the  Man.  There 
is  a  dread  secret  in  the  terrible  eyes  of  Judas,  as  there  is 
a  wondrous  secret  in  the  beautiful  eyes  of  Jesus.  This 
horrible  proximity  of  divine  beauty  and  of  monstrous  hid- 
eousness  presents  a  problem  which  the  artist  tries  to  solve. 
He  makes  of  Judas  a  fanatical  revolutionist,  the  slave  of 
an  idea  who  has  resolved  to  materialize  "horror  and 
dreams"  and  to  bring  about  the  truth.  There  is  in  Judas 
that  same  duality  which  characterizes  so  many  of  Andrey 
ev's  heroes.  He  has  two  faces.  He  lies  and  dissembles. 
Throughout  the  whole  story  the  dual  personality  of  the 
Traitor  is  brought  out  with  wonderful  skill. 
k  In  "Judas  Iscariot"  Andreyev  contrasts  Judas  with 


VI 

Jesus.  In  "Lazarus"  he  contrasts  the  morose  Jew,  whom 
Jesus  brought  back  from  death  into  life  after  three  days 
and  three  nights  in  the  darkness  of  the  tomb,  with  the  life- 
loving  Augustus.  If  in  "Judas  Iscariot"  Judas,  wise,  cun 
ning  and  evil,  overcomes  Jesus,  naive,  meek  and  trustful, 
in  "Lazarus"  it  is  the  Roman  Emperor  who  causes  the  eyes 
of  the  Jew  to  be  pierced,  but  is  in  the  end  overcome  him 
self. 

"Anathema" — a  play  of  Andreyev  which  in  grandeur 
of  conception  equals  Goethe's  Faust,  has  for  its  humble 
hero,  David  Leiser,  trustful,  stupid,  guileless,  ever  obedient 
to  his  heart,  who  reaches  immortality  and  lives  the  life  ot 
immortality  and  light.  His  enemy,  Anathema,  who  follows 
the  cold  dictates  of  reason,  is  foiled. 

From  Andreyev's  pen  we  have  a  series  of  dramatic 
pictures,  "Black  Masks,"  "King  Hunger,"  "Savva,"  "To 
the  Stars,"  and  others,  and  a  number  of  stories,  some  of 
them  in  places  streaked  with  a  realism  that  is  almost  too 
revolting  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  ideas  of  propriety.  Thus 
in  "My  Memoirs,"  he  tells  of  an  insane  doctor  of  mathe 
matics,  who  confined  for  life  in  a  prison  for  a  horrible 
crime  sets  down  his  experiences  in  a  series  of  hypo 
critical  diary  notes,  and  who  expatiates  upon  the  beauties 
of  nameless  vice.  In  "The  Darkness,"  the  bomb  throwing 
idealist,  who  hiding  from  the  police  on  the  eve  of  his  deed, 
enters  a  house  of  ill- fame  and  becomes  so  abashed  at  the 
sight  of  the  life  of  an  inmate  that  he  exclaims  "It  is  a  dis 
grace  to  be  good,"  and  kisses  her  hand,  only  to  have  his 
face  slapped  because  the  fallen  woman  resents  his  parading 
of  goodness  at  her  expense. 

Andreyev,  because  of  the  cumulative  portrayals  of  the 
weird  and  the  horrible,  has  been  called  the  Russian  Edgar 
Allan  Poe.  But  between  Poe  and  Andreyev  there  lies  a 
century  of  time  and  a  world  of  space. 


vn 

Poe's  hero,  in  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,"  is 
the  last  remnant  of  a  feudal  epoch  dying  in  a  crumbling 
castle,  every  stone  of  which  speaks  of  a  series  of  genera 
tions  and  of  external  and  internal  dissolution.  The  heroes 
of  Andreyev  are  solitary  men,  hiding  in  their  professorial 
studies,  in  the  basements  of  tenement  houses,  in  the  caves 
of  Judea.  Death  with  Poe  is  mysteriously  beautiful,  with 
Andreyev  it  is  a  blighting,  baneful  curse.  The  solitude  of 
Poe's  heroes  is  the  tragic  solitude  of  a  superman  on  a  lonely 
height,  the  solitude  of  Andreyev's  heroes  is  the  solitude  of 
little  men,  worn  out  with  the  futile  vicissitudes  of  life.  But 
the  horror  of  life  and  of  death  makes  these  two  great 
artists  kin.  Of  the  Russian  authors  Dostoyevsky  is  nearest 
to  Andreyev.  The  solitude  of  the  curse-stricken  man,  of 
the  man  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  the  morbid  acuteness  of  his 
perceptions,  the  dominion  of  intellect  over  life,  the  eternal 
longing  to  overstep  the  boundary,  the  endless  striving  with 
God,  the  city  with  its  garrets  and  basements — these  are  the 
favorite  themes  both  of  Dostoyevsky  and  of  Andreyev. 

As  to  style,  Leonid  Andreyev  is  a  wonderful  word 
painter,  but  his  brush  knows  only  somber  colors.  The  basic 
background  of  his  stories  and  of  his  dramas  is  a  dark-grey, 
sometimes  streaked  with  fiery-red.  His  pessimism  leads 
him  to  look  upon  the  world  through  dark  spectacles.  Duke 
Lorenzo  is  held  captive  by  "Black  Masks."  He  sails  in  a 
ship  with  "black  sails."  At  the  prow  of  the  vessel  is  a 
"young  woman  in  black." 

The  stories  included  in  this  first  volume  of  Andreyev's 
works  in  the  "Russian  Authors'  Library"  series  are :  "When 
the  King  Loses  his  Head,"  "Judas  Iscariot,"  "Lazarus," 
"Life  of  Father  Vassili,"  "Ben-Tobith"  and  "Dies  Irae." 

ARCHIBALD  J.  WOLFE. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  His  HEAD    .*••••  5 

JUDAS  ISCARIOT e    .  45 

LAZARUS   ^.  ' ,    .  131 

/ 

LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  ..    f    .......  161 

BEN-TOBITH       •••(•••••  273 

THE  MARSEILLAISE    .,»•••••••••  281 

DIES  IRAE     •.        s                 .        «•...,.  287 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD. 


V  V,  •'«  U     \  A 


PART  I. 

There  stood  once  in  a  public  place  a  black  tower  with 
massive  fortress-like  walls  and  a  few  j£nmjt^astioned  win 
dows.  _It  had  be.en  built  by  robber  barons,  but  time  swept 
them  into  the  beyond,  and  the  tower  became  partly  a  pris 
on  for  dangerous  criminals  and  grave  offenders,  and  partly 
a  residence.  In  the  course  of  centuries  new  structures 
were  added  to  tfT^nd  were  buttressed  against  the  massive 
walls  of  the  tower  and  against  one  another;  little  by  little 
it  assumed  the  dimensions  of  a  fair  sized  town  set  on  a 
rock,  with  a  broken  skyline  of  chimneys,  turrets  and 
pointed  roofs.  When  the  sky  gleamed  green  in  the  west 
there  appeared,  here  and  there,  lights  in  the  various  parts 
of  the  tower.  The  gloomy  pile  assumed  quaint  and  fanci 
ful  contours,  and  it  somehow  seemed  that  at  its  foot  there 
stretched  not  an  ordinary  pavement,  but  the  waves  of  the 
sea,  the  salty  and  shoreless  ocean.  And  the  picture  brought 
to  one's  mind  the  shapes  of  the  past,  long  since  dead  and 
forgotten. 

An  immense  ancient  clock,  which  could  be  seen  from 
afar,  was  set  in  the  tower.  Its  complicated  mechanism 
occupied  an  entire  story  of  the  structure,  and  it  was  under 
the  care  of  a  one-eyed  man  who  could  use  a  magnifying 
glass  with  expert  skill.  This  was  the  reason  why  he  had 
become  a  clockmaker  and  had  tinkered  for  years  with 
small  timepieces  before  he  was  given  charge  of  the  large 
clock.  Here  he  felt  at  home  and  happy.  Often,  at  odd 
hours,  without  apparent  need  he  would  enter  the  room 


LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

where  the  wheels,  the  gears  and  the  levers  moved  de 
liberately,  and  where  the  immense  pendulum  cleft  the 
air  with  wide  and  even  sweep.  Having  reached  the 
limit  of  its  travel  the  pendulum  said: 

"  'Twas  ever  thus." 

Then  it  sank  and  rose  again  to  a  new  elevation  and 
added : 

*  'Twill  ever  be,  'twas  ever  thus,  'twill  ever  be, 
'twas  ever  thus,  'twill  ever  be." 

These  were  the  words  with  which  the  one-eyed 
clockmaker  was  wont  to  interpret  the  monotonous  and 
mysterious  language  of  the  pendulum:  the  close  con 
tact  with  the  large  clock  had  made  him  a  philosopher, 
as  they  used  to  say  in  those  days. 

Over  the  ancient  city  where  the  tower  stood,  and 
over  the  entire  land  there  ruled  one  man,  the  mystic 
lord  of  the  city  and  of  the  land,  and  his  mysterious 
sway,  the  rule  of  one  man  over  the  millions  was  as  an 
cient  as  the  city  itself.  He  was  called  the  King  and  dub 
bed  the  "Twentieth,"  according  to  the  number  of  his 
predecessors  of  the  same  name,  but  this  fact  explained 
nothing.  Just  as  no  one  knew  of  the  early  beginnings  of 
the  city,  no  one  knew  the  origin  of  this  strange  domin 
ion,  and  no  matter  how  far  back  human  memory  reached 
the  records  of  the  hoary  past  presented  the  same  my-^ 
sterious  picture  of  one  man  who  lorded  over  millions. 
There  was  a  silent  antiquity  over  which  the  memory 
of  man  had  no  power,  but  it,  too,  at  rare  intervals, 
opened  its  lips;  it  dropped  from  its  jaws  a  stone,  a  little 
slab  marked  with  some  characters,  the  fragment  of  a 
column,  a  brick  from  a  wall  that  had  crumbled  into 
ruin — and  again  the  mysterious  characters  revealed  the 
same  tale  of  one  who  had  been  lord  over  millions.  Titles, 
names  and  soubriquets  changed,  but  the  image  remained 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD          9 

unchanged,  as  if  it  were  immortal.  The  King  was  born 
and  died  like  all  men,  and  judging  from  appearance, 
which  was  that  common  to  all  men,  he  was  a  man;  but 
when  one  took  into  account  the  unlimited  extent  of 
his  power  and  might,  it  was  easier  to  imagine  that  he 
was  God.  Especially  as  God  had  been  always  imagined 
to  be  like  a  man,  and  yet  suffered  no  loss  of  his  peculiar 
and  incomprehensible  essence.  The  Twentieth  was  the 
King.  This  meant  that  he  had  power  to  make  a  man 
happy  or  unhappy;  that  he  could  take  away  his  fortune, 
his  health,  his  liberty  and  his  very  life;  at  his  command 
tens  of  thousands  of  men  went  forth  to  war,  to  kill  and 
to  die;  in  his  name  were  wrought  acts  just  and  unjust, 
cruel  and  merciful.  And  his  laws  were  no  less  stringent 
than  those  of  God;  this  too  enhanced  his  greatness  in 
that  God's  laws  are  immutable,  but  he  could  change  his 
at  will.  Distant  or  near,  he  always  was  higher  than 
life ;  at  his  birth  man  found  along  with  nature,  cities 
and  books — his  King;  dying — he  left  with  nature,  cities 
and  books — the  King. 

The  history  of  the  land,  oral  and  written,  showed 
examples  of  magnanimous,  just  and  good  Kings,  and 
though  there  lived  people  better  than  they,  still  one 
could  understand  why  they  might  have  ruled.  But  more 
frequently  it  happened  that  the  King  was  the  worst 
man  on  earth,  bare  of  all  virtues,  cruel,  unjust,  even  a 
madman — yet  even  then  he  remained  the  mysterious  one 
who  ruled  over  millions,  and  his  power  increased  with 
his  misdeeds.  All  the  world  hated  and  cursed  him,  but 
he,  the  one,  ruled  over  those  who  hated  and  cursed,  and 
this  savage  dominion  became  an  enigma,  and  the  dread 
of  man  before  man  was  increased  by  the  mystic  terror 
of  the  unfathomable.  And  because  of  this  wisdom,  virtue 
and  kindness  served  to  weaken  Kingcraft  and  made  it 


10        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

a  subject  of  strife,  while  tyranny,  madness  and  malice 
strengthened  it.  And  because  of  this  the  practice  of 
beneficence  and  goodness  was  beyond  the  ability  of  even 
the  most  powerful  of  these  mysterious  lords  though 
even  the  weakest  of  them  in  destructiveness  and  evil 
deeds  could  surpass  the  devil  and  the  fiends  of  hell. 
He  could  not  give  life,  but  he  imposed  death,  that  my 
sterious  Anointed  one  of  madness,  death  and  evil;  and 
his  throne  rose  to  greater  heights,  the  more  bones  had 
been  laid  down  for  its  foundations. 

In  other  neighboring  lands  there  sat  also  lords 
upon  their  thrones,  and  the  origin  of  their  dominion  .was 
lost  in  hoary  antiquity.  There  were  years  and  cen 
turies  when  the  mysterious  lord  disappeared  from  one 
of  the  Kingdoms,  though  there  never  was  a  time  when 
the  whole  earth  was  wholly  without  them.  Centuries 
passed  and  again,  no  one  knows  whence,  there  appeared 
in  that  land  a  throne,  and  again  there  sat  thereon  some 
mysterious  one,  incomprehensibly  combining  in  himself 
frailty  and  undying  power.  And  this  mystery  fascina 
ted  the  people;  at  all  times  there  had  been  among  them 
such  as  loved  him  more  than  themselves,  more  than 
their  wives  and  children,  and  humbl},  as  if  from  the 
hand  of  God,  without  murmur  or  pity,  they  received 
from  him  and  in  his  name,  death  in  most  cruel  and 
shameful  form. 

The  Twentieth  and  his  predecessors  rarely  showed 
themselves  to  the  people,  and  only  a  few  ever  saw  them ; 
but  they  loved  to  scatter  abroad  their  image,  leaving  it 
on  coins,  hewing  it  out  of  stone,  impressing  it  on  myriads 
of  canvases,  and  adorning  and  perfecting  it  through  the 
skill  of  artists.  One  could  not  take  a  step  without 
seeing  the  face,  the  same  simple  and  mysterious  face, 
forcing  itself  on  the  mind  by  sheer  ubiquity,  conquering 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        11 

the  imagination,  and  acquiring  a  seeming  omnipres 
ence,  just  as  it  had  attained  immortality.  And  there 
fore  people  who  but  faintly  remembered  the  face  of 
their  grandfathers  and  could  not  have  recognized  the 
features  of  their  great  grandfathers,  knew  well  the  faces 
of  their  lords  of  a  hundred,  two  hundred  or  a  thousand 
years  back.  And  therefore,  too,  no  matter  how  plain 
the  face  of  the  one  man  who  was  master  of  millions 
may  have  been,  it  bore  always  the  imprint  of  enigmatic 
and  awe-inspiring  mystery.  So  the  face  of  the  dead 
always  seems  mysterious  and  significant,  for  through 
the  familiar  and  well  known  features  one  gazes  upon 
death,  the  mysterious  and  powerful. 

Thus  high  above  life  stood  the  King.  People  died, 
and  whole  generations  passed  from  the  face  of  the 
earth,  but  he  only  changed  his  soubriquet  like  a  serpent 
shedding  his  skin :  The  Eleventh  was  followed  by  the 
twelfth,  the  fifteenth,  then  again  came  the  first,  the 
fifth,  the  second,  and  in  these  cold  figures  sounded  an 
inevitableness  like  that  of  a  swinging  pendulum  which 
marks  the  passing  of  time: 

"  'Twas  ever  thus,  'twill  ever  be." 

PART  II. 

And  it  happened  that  in  that  great  country,  the  lord 
of  which  was  the  Twentieth,  there  occurred  a  revolu 
tion,  a  rising  of  the  millions,  as  mysterious  as  had  been 
the  rule  of  the  one.  Something  strange  happened  to 
the  strong  ties  which  had  bound  together  the  King  and 
the  people,  and  they  began  to  decay  noiselessly,  un-  v> 
noticeably,  mysteriously,  like  a  body  out  of  which  the 
life  had  departed,  and  in  which  new  forces  that  had 
been  in  hiding  somewhere  commenced  their  work.  There 


12        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

was  the  same  throne,  the  same  palace,  and  the  same 
Twentieth — but  his  power  had  unaccountably  passed 
away;  and  no  one  had  noticed  the  hour  of  its  passage, 
and  all  thought  that  it  merely  was  ailing.  The  people 
simply  lost  the  habit  of  obeying  and  that  was  all,  and 
all  at  once,  from  out  the  multitude  ot  separate  trifling, 
unnoticed  resistances,  there  grew  up  a  stupendous,  un 
conquerable  movement.  And  as  soon  as  the  people 
ceased  to  obey,  all  their  ancient  sores  were  opened,  and 
wrathfully  they  became  conscious  of  hunger,  injustice 
and  oppression.  And  they  made  an  uproar.  And  they 
demanded  justice.  And  they  reared  a  gigantic  beast 
bristling  with  wrath,  taking  vengeance  on  its  tamer  for 
years  of  humiliation  and  tortures.  Just  as  they  had  not 
held  counsels  to  agree  to  obedience,  they  did  not  confer 
about  rebelling;  and  straightway,  from  all  sides  there 
gathered  a  rising  and  made  its  way  to  the  palace. 

Wondering  at  themselves  and  their  deeds,  oblivious 
of  the  path  behind  them,  they  advanced  closer  and  closer 
to  the  throne,  fingering  already  its  gilt  carving,  peeping 
into  the  royal  bed-chamber  and  attempting  to  sit  upon 
royal  chairs.  The  King  bowed  and  the  Queen  smiled, 
and  many  of  the  people  wept  with  joy  as  they  beheld 
the  Twentieth  at  close  range;  the  women  stroked  with 
cautious  fingei  the  velvet  of  the  royal  coat  and  the  silk 
of  the  royal  gown,  while  the  men  with  good-natured 
severity  amused  the  royal  infant. 

The  King  bowed  and  the  pale  Queen  smiled,  and 
from  under  the  door  of  a  neighboring  apartment  there 
crept  in  the  black  current  of  the  Ulood  of  a  nobleman, 
who  had  stabbed  himself  to  death;  he  could  not  survive 
the  spectacle  of  somebody's  djrty  fingers  touching  the 
royal  coat,  and  committed  suicide.  And  as  they  dis 
persed  they  shouted: 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        13 

"Long  live   the  Twentieth." 

Here  and  there  were  some  who  frowned;  but  it 
was  all  so  humorous  that  they  too  forgot  their  annoy 
ance  and  gaily  laughing  as  if  at  a  carnival  when  some 
motley  clown  is  crowned,  they  also  shouted,  "Long  live 
the  Twentieth."  And  they  laughed.  But  towards  even 
ing  there  was  gloom  in  their  faces  and  suspicion  in  their 
glances;  how  could  they  have  faith  in  him  who  for  a 
thousand  years  with  diabolical  cunning  had  been  de 
ceiving  his  good  and  confiding  people !  The  palace  is 
dark;  its  immense  windows  gleam  insincerely  and  peer 
sulkily  into  the  darkness :  some  scheme  is  being  con 
cocted  there.  They  are  conjuring  the  powers  of  dark 
ness  and  calling  on  them  for  vengeance  upon  the  people. 
There  they  loathingly  cleanse  the  lips  from  traitorous 
kisses  and  bathe  the  royal  infant  who  has  been  defiled 
by  the  touch  of  the  people.  Perhaps  there  is  no  one 
there.  Perhaps  in  the  immense  darkened  salons  there 
is  only  the  suicide  nobleman  and  space — they  may  have 
disappeared.  One  must  shout,  one  must  call  for  him, 
if  a  living  being  still  be  there.  "Long  live  the  Twen 
tieth!" 

A  palegrey,  perplexing  sky  looks  down  upon  pallid, 
upturned  faces;  the  frightened  clouds  are  scurrying  over 
the  heavens,  and  the  immense  windows  gleam  with  a 
mysterious  lifeless  light.  "Long  live  the  Twentieth !" 

The  overwhelmed  sentinel  seems  to  sway  in  the 
surging  crowd.  He  has  lost  his  gun  and  is  smiling;  the 
lock  upon  the  iron  portals  clatters  spasmodically  and 
feverishly;  clinging  to  the  lofty  iron  rods  of  the  gate, 
like  black  and  misshapen  fruit  are  crouching  bodies 
and  outstretched  hands,  that  look  pale  on  top  and  dark 
below.  A  shaggy  mass  of  clouds  sweeps  the  sky  and 


14         WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

gazes  down  upon  the  scenes.  Shouts.  Someone  has 
lighted  a  torch,  and  the  palace  windows  blushed  as  if 
crimson  with  blood  and  drew  nearer  to  the  crowd.  Some 
thing  seemed  to  be  creeping  upon  the  walls  and  disap 
peared  upon  the  roof.  The  lock  rattled  no  longer.  The 
glare  of  the  torch  revealed  the  railing  crowded  with 
people,  and  now  it  became  again  invisible.  The  people 
were  moving  onward. 

"Long  live  the  Twentieth !"  A  number  of  dim  lights 
now  seem  to  be  flittering  past  the  windows.  Somebody's 
ugly  features  press  closely  to  the  pane  and  disappear. 
It  is  growing  lighter.  The  torches  increase  in  number, 
multiply  and  move  up  and  down,  like  some  curious 
dance  or  procession.  Now  the  torches  crowd  together 
and  incline  as  if  saluting;  the  king  and  queen  appear 
on  the  balcony.  There  is  a  blaze  of  light  behind  them, 
but  their  faces  are  dark,  and  the  crowd  is  not  sure  it  is 
really  they,  in  person. 

"Give  us  Light!  Twentieth"!  Give  us  Light!  We 
can  not  see  thee !"  Suddenly  several  torches  flash  to  the 
right  and  to  the  left  of  them,  and  from  a  smoky  cavern 
two  flushed  and  trembling  countenances  come  into  view. 
The  people  in  the  back  are  yelling:  "It  is  not  they!  The 
king  has  fled!"  But  those  nearest  now  shout  with  the 
joy  of  relieved  anxiety:  "Long  live  the  Twentieth !"  The 
crimson  faces  are  now  seen  moving  slowly  up  and  down, 
now  bright  in  the  lurid  glare,  now  vanishing  in  the 
shadow ;  they  are  bowing  to  the  people.  It  is  the  Nine 
teenth,  the  Fourth,  the  Second  who  are  bowing;  bowing 
in  the  crimson  mist  are  those  mysterious  creatures  who 
had  held  so  much  enigmatic,  almost  divine  power,  and 
behind  them  are  vanishing  in  the  crimson  mist  of  the 
past,  murders,  executions,  majesty  and  dread.  Now  he 
must  speak;  the  human  voice  is  needed;  when  he  is 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        15 

silent  and  bows  with  his  flaming  face  he  is  terrible  to 
look  upon,  like  a  devil  conjured  up  from  hell. 

"Speak,  Twentieth,  speak !"  A  curious  motion  of  the 
hand,  calling  for  silence,  a  strange  commanding  gesture, 
as  ancient  as  kingcraft  itself,  and  a  gentle  unknown 
voice  is  heard  dropping  those  ancient  and  curious  words : 
"I  am  glad  to  see  my  good  people."  Is  that  all?  And 
is  it  not  enough?  He  is  glad!  The  Twentieth  is  glad! 
Be  not  angry  with  us  Twentieth.  We  love  thee,  Twen 
tieth,  love  us,  too.  If  you  will  not  love  us  we  shall 
come  again  to  see  you  in  your  study  where  you  work, 
in  your  dining-room  where  you  eat,  in  your  bed  chamber 
where  you  sleep,  and  we  shall  compel  you  to  love  us. 
Long  live  the  Twentieth !  Long  live  the  king !  Long  live 
our  master!" 

Slaves ! 

Who  said  slaves?  The  torches  are  expiring.  They 
are  departing.  The  dim  lights  are  moving  back  into  the 
palace,  the  windows  are  dark  again,  but  they  flush  with 
a  crimson  reflection.  Someone  is  being  sought  in  the 
crowd.  The  crowds  are  hurrying,  casting  frightened 
glances  behind.  Had  he  been  here  or  had  it  been  a 
mere  fancy?  They  ought  to  have  touched  him,  fingered 
his  garments  or  his  face;  he  ought  to  have  been  made 
to  cry  out  with  terror  or  pain.  They  disperse  in  silence ; 
the  shouts  of  individuals  are  drowned  in  the  discordant 
tramp  of  many  feet;  they  are  filled  with  obscure  mem 
ories,  presentiments  and  terrors.  And  horrible  visions 
hover  all  night  long  over  the  city. 

PART  III. 

He  had  already  attempted  to  flee.  He  had  be 
witched  some  and  lulled  others  to  sleep  «.nd  had  almost 


16        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

gained  his  diabolical  liberty,  when  a  faithful  son  of  the 
fatherland  recognized  him  in  the  disguise  of  a  shabby 
domestic.  Not  trusting  to  his  memory  he  looked  on  a 
coin  which  bore  his  image — and  the  bells  rang  out  in 
alarm,  the  houses  belched  forth  masses  of  pale  and 
frightened  people;  it  was  he!  Now  he  is  in  the  tower, 
in  the  immense  black  tower  with  the  massive  walls  and 
the  small  bastioned  windows;  and  faithful  sons  of  the 
people  are  watching  him,  impervious  to  bribery,  en 
chantment  and  flattery.  To  drive  away  fear  the  guards 
drink  and  laugh  and  blow  clouds  of  smoke  right  into 
his  face,  when  he  essays  to  take  a  walk  in  the  prison 
with  his  devilish  progeny.  To  prevent  him  from  en 
chanting  the  passersby  they  had  boarded  up  the  lower 
portions  of  the  windows  and  the  tower  gallery  where 
he  was  wont  to  promenade,  and  only  the  wandering 
clouds  in  passing  look  into  his  face.  But  he  is  strong. 
He  transforms  the  laughter  of  a  freeman  into  selvile 
tears;  he  sows  seeds  of  disloyalty  and  treason  from  be 
hind  the  massive  walls  and  they  penetrate  into  the 
hearts  of  the  people  like  black  flowers,  staining  the 
golden  raiment  of  liberty  into  the  likeness  of  a  wild 
beast's  skin.  Traitors  and  enemies  abound  on  all  hands. 
Descended  from  their  thrones  other  powerful  and  my 
sterious  lords  gather  at  the  frontier  with  hordes  of 
savage  and  bewitched  people,  matricides  ready  to  put 
to  death  freedom,  their  mother.  In  the  houses,  on  the 
streets,  in  the  mysterious  wilderness  of  forests  and  dis 
tant  villages,  in  the  proud  mansions  of  the  popular  as 
sembly,  there  hisses  the  sound  of  treason  and  glides  the 
shadow  of  treachery.  Woe  unto  the  people!  They  are 
betrayed  by  those  who  had  been  the  first  to  raise  the 
banner  of  revolt  and  the  traitors'  wretched  remains  are 
already  cast  out  of  the  dishonored  sepulchres  and  their 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        17 

black  blood  drenches  the  earth.  Woe  unto  the  people! 
They  are  betrayed  by  those  to  whom  they  had  given 
their  hearts;  betrayed  by  their  own  elect;  whose  faces 
?re  honest,  whose  tongues  are  uncompromisingly  stern 
and  whose  pockets  are  full  of  somebody's  gold. 

Now  the  city  is  to  be  searched.  It  was  ordered 
that  all  should  be  in  their  dwellings  at  mid-day;  and 
when  at  the  appointed  hour  the  bells  were  rung,  their 
ominous  sound  rolled  echoing  over  the  deserted  and 
silent  streets.  Since  the  city's  birth  there  had  never 
reigned  such  stillness;  not  a  soul  near  the  fountains; 
the  stores  are  closed ;  on  the  streets,  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  not  a  pedestrian,  not  a  carriage  to  be  seen.  The 
alarmed  and  astonished  cats  wander  in  the  shadow  of 
the  silent  walls;  they  can  not  tell  whether  it  be  day 
or  night;  and  so  profound  is  the  silence  that  it  seems 
as  if  their  velvety  footfall  were  plainly  audible.  The 
measured  tones  of  the  bells  pass  over  the  streets  like 
invisible  brooms  sweeping  the  city  clean.  Now  the  cats, 
too,  frightened  at  something,  have  disappeared.  Silence 
and  desolation. 

Suddenly  on  every  street  there  appear  simultane 
ously  little  bands  of  armed  people.  They  converse  loudly 
and  freely  and  stamp  their  feet,  and  although  they  are 
not  many  they  seem  to  cause  more  noisy  commotion 
than  the  whole  city  when  it  is  crowded  with  a  hundred 
thousand  pedestrians  and  vehicles.  Each  house  seems 
to  swallow  them  up  in  succession  and  to  belch  them 
forth  again.  And  as  they  emerge  another  or  two  more 
are  belched  forth  with  them,  pale  with  malice  or  red 
with  wrath.  And  they  walked  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets,  for  in  those  curious  days  no  one  feared  death, 
not  even  the  traitors;  and  they  entered  into  the  dark 
jaws  of  the  prison  houses.  Ten  thousand  traitors  were 


18        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

found  that  day  by  the  faithful  servants  of  the  people; 
they  found  ten  thousand  traitors  and  cast  them  into  pri 
son.  Now  the  prisons  were  pleasant  and  awful  to  look 
upon;  so  full  they  were  from  top  to  bottom  with  dis 
loyalty  and  shameful  treachery.  One  wondered  that 
the  walls  could  bear  the  load  without  crumbling  into 
dust. 

That  night  there  was  a  general  rejoicing  in  the 
city.  The  houses  were  emptied  once  more  and  the 
streets  were  filled;  endless  black  throngs  engaged  in  a 
stupefying  dance,  a  combination  of  quick  and  unex 
pected  gyrations.  Dancing  was  in  progress  from  one 
end  of  the  city  to  the  other.  Around  the  lamp-posts  like 
the  foaming  surf  that  beats  against  the  rocks,  knots  of 
merrymakers  had  gathered,  clasping  hands,  their  faces 
aglow  with  laughter,  and  wide-eyed,  whirling  around, 
now  vanishing  from  view  and  ever  changing  in  expres 
sion.  From  the  lamp-post  dangled  the  corpse  of  some 
executed  traitor  who  had  not  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
shelter  of  his  prison.  His  extended  legs  seeking  the 
ground,  almost  touched  the  heads  of  the  dancers,  and 
the  corpse  itself  seemed  to  dance,  yes,  it  seemed  to  be 
the  very  master  of  ceremonies  and  the  ring-leader  of 
the  merriment,  directing  the  dance. 

Then  they  walked  over  to  the  black  tower  and 
craning  their  necks,  shouted:  "Death  to  the  Twentieth! 
Death  1"  Cheerful  lights  gleamed  now  in  the  tower  win 
dows  ;  the  faithful  sons  of  the  people  were  watching  the 
tyrant.  Calmed  and  assured  that  he  could  not  escape, 
they  shouted  more  in  a  jest  than  seriously:  "Death  to 
the  Twentieth!"  And  they  departed,  making  room  for 
other  shouters.  But  at  night  horrible  dreams  again 
hovered  over  the  city,  and  like  poison  which  one  has 
swallowed  and  failed  to  spit  out,  the  black  towers  and 


WHN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        19 


prisons  reeking  with  traitors  and  treachery,  gnawed  at 
the  city's  vitals. 

Now  they  were  putting  the  traitors  to  death.  They 
had  sharpened  their  sabres,  axes  and  scythes;  they  had 
gathered  blocks  of  wood  and  heavy  stones  and  for  forty- 
eight  hours  they  worked  in  the  prisons  until  they  col 
lapsed  from  fatigue.  They  slept  anywhere  near  their 
bloody  work,  they  ate  and  drank  there.  The  earth  re 
fused  to  absorb  the  streams  of  sluggish  blood;  they  had 
to  cover  it  with  heaps  of  straw,  but  that  covering  too 
was  drenched  and  transformed  into  brownish  refuse. 
Seven  thousand  traitors  were  put  to  death  that  day. 
Seven  thousand  traitors  had  bitten  the  dust  in  order 
to  cleanse  the  city  and  furnish  life  to  the  newborn  free 
dom.  They  marched  again  to  see  the  Twentieth  and 
held  up  to  his  view  the  chopped  off  heads  and  the  torn 
out  hearts  of  the  traitois.  And  he  saw  them.  Then 
confusion  and  consternation  reigned  in  the  popular  as 
sembly.  They  sought  him  who  had  given  the  order  to 
slay  and  could  not  detect  him.  But  someone  must  have 
given  the  order  to  slay.  Was  it  you?  Or  you?  Or  you? 
But  who  had  dared  to  give  orders  where  the  popular  as 
sembly  alone  had  the  right  to  command?  Some  are  smil 
ing  —  they  seem  to  know  something. 

"Murderers!" 

"No  !  But  we  have  compassion  with  our  native  land, 
while  you  express  pity  with  traitors!" 

Still  peace  is  afar  off,  and  treachery  is  growing 
apace  and  multiplying;  insiduously  it  finds  its  way  into 
the  very  hearts  of  the  people.  Oh!  the  sufferings,  and 
Oh!  the  bloodshed  —  and  all  in  vain!  Through  the  mas 
sive  walls  that  mysterious  sovereign  still  sows  the  seeds 
of  treachery  and  enchantment.  Alas  for  freedom  !  From 
the  West  comes  the  news  of  terrible  dissensions,  of  bat- 


20        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

ties,  of  a  crazed  portion  of  the  people  who  had  seceded 
and  risen  in  arms  against  their  mother,  the  Freedom. 
Threats  are  heard  from  the  south,  and  from  the  east  and 
the  north  other  mysterious  lords  who  had  descend 
ed  from  their  thrones  are  closing  in  upon  the  land  with 
their  savage  hordes.  No  matter  whence  they  come  the 
clouds  are  imbued  with  the  breath  of  foes  and  of  trai 
tors.  No  matter  whence  they  blow  from  the  north  ancf 
the  south,  from  the  west  and  the  east,  the  winds  waft 
mutterings  of  threats  and  of  wrath,  and  strike  joyfully 
on  the  ear  of  him  who  is  imprisoned  in  the  tower,  while 
they  sound  a  funeral  knell  in  the  ears  of  citizens.  Alas 
for  the  people!  Alas  for  liberty!  At  night  the  moon  is 
bright  and  radiant  as  if  shining  above  ruins,  but  the 
sun  even  is  lost  in  the  mist  and  the  black  concourse  of 
clouds,  deformed,  monstrous  and  ugly,  which  seem  to 
strangle  it.  They  attack  it  and  strangle  it  and  a  mingled 
shagginess  of  crimson,  they  crash  into  the  abyss  of  the 
west.  Once  for  an  instant  the  sun  broke  through  the 
clouds — and  how  sad,  awesome  and  frightened  was  that 
ray  of  light.  Hurriedly  tender  it  seemed  to  caress  the 
tops  of  the  trees,  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  the  spires  of 
the  churches. 

But  in  the  tower  the  one-eyed  clockmaker,  who 
could  so  conveniently  use  the  magnifying  glass,  walk 
ing  amid  his  wheels  and  gears,  his  levers  and  r®pes,  and 
bending  his  head  to  one  side  watches  the  swinging  of 
the  mighty  pendulum.  "  'Twas  ever  thus — 'twill  ever 
be.  'Twas  ever  thus — 'twill  ever  be!" 

Once  when  he  was  very  young  the  clock  got  out 
of  order  and  stopped  for  the  space  of  two  days.  And 
it  was  such  a  terrifying  experience,  as  if  all  time  had 
slipped  into  an  abyss.  But  after  the  clock  had  been  re 
paired,  all  was  well  again,  and  now  time  seems  to  flow 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        21 

between  one's  fingers,  to  ooze  drop  by  drop,  to  split 
into  little  pieces,  falling  an  inch  at  a  time.  The  immense 
brazen  disc  of  the  pendulum  lights  up  faintly  as  it  moves 
and  seems  to  swing  like  a  ball  of  gold  if  one  looks  at  it 
with  half-closed  eyes.  A  pigeon  is  heard  cooing  softly 
?mong  the  rafters.  "  'Twas  ever  thus — 'twill  ever  be!" 
"  Twas  ever  thus— 'twill  ever  be !" 

PART  IV. 

The  thousand-year-old  monarchy  was  at  last  over 
thrown.  There  was  no  need  of  the  plebiscite ;  every  man 
in  the  popular  assembly  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  from 
top  to  bottom  it  became  filled  with  standing  men.  Even 
that  sick  deputy  who  had  been  brought  in  an  armchair 
rose  to  his  feet;  supported  by  his  friends  he  straight 
ened  his  limbs,  crushed  with  paralysis,  and  stood  erect 
like  a  tall  withered  stump  supported  by  two  young  and 
slender  trees. 

"The  republic  is  accepted  unanimously,"  someone 
announced  with  a  sonorous  voice,  vainly  attempting  to 
conceal  its  triumphant  tone. 

But  they  all  remained  standing.  A  minute  passed, 
then  another;  already  upon  the  public  square,  which  was 
thronged  with  expectant  people,  there  had  burst  forth  a 
thunderous  manifestation  of  joy,  but  in  the  hall  there 
reigned  a  solemn  stillness  as  in  a  cathedral,  and  stern, 
majestically  serious  people,  grown  rigid  in  the  attitude 
of  proud  homage.  Before  whom  are  they  standing? 
They  no  longer  own  a  King,  even  God,  that  tyrant  and 
king  of  heaven,  had  long  since  been  overthrown  from 
His  celestial  seat.  They  are  paying  homage  to  Liberty. 
The  aged  deputy  whose  head  had  been  shaking  for 
years  with  senile  palsy  now  holds  it  up  erect  and  proud. 


22        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

There,  with  an  easy  gesture  of  his  hand,  he  has  pushed 
aside  his  friends;  he  is  standing  alone;  liberty  has  ac- 
x ,  complished  a  miracle.     These  men  who  had  long  since 
forgotten  the  art  of  weeping,  living  amid  tempests,  riots 
k  and  bloodshed,   are   weeping  now.     The   cruel   eyes   of 
1   eagles  which  gazed  calm  and  unmoved  on   the  blood- 
reeking  sun  of  the   Revolution   can   not   withstand   the 
gentle  radiance  of  Liberty,  and  they  shed  tears. 

Silence  reigns  in  the  hall;  but  a  tumultuous  up 
roar  is  heard  outside;  growing  in  volume  and  intensity 
it  loses  its  sharpness;  it  is  uniform  and  mighty  and 
brings  to  mind  the  roar  of  the  limitless  ocean.  They 
are  all  freemen  now.  Free  are  the  dying,  free  are  those 
coming  into  the  world,  free  are  the  living.  The  my 
sterious  dominion  of  One  which  had  held  the  millions  in 
its  clutches  is  overthrown,  the  black  vaults  of  prisons 
have  crumbled  into  dust — and  overhead  shines  the  cloud 
less,  and  radiant  sky. 

"Liberty" — someone  whispers  softly  and  tenderly 
like  the  name  of  a  sweetheart.  "Liberty!"  exclaims  an 
other,  breathless  writh  unutterable  joy,  his  face  aglow 
with  intense  eagerness  and  lofty  inspiration.  "Liberty !" 
is  heard  in  the  clanging  of  the  iron.  "Liberty !"  sing  the 
stringed  instruments.  "Liberty!"  roars  the  many-voiced 
ocean.  He  is  dead,  the  old  deputy.  His  heart  could 
|  not  contain  the  infinite  joy  and  it  stopped,  its  last  beat 
being — Liberty!  The  most  blessed  of  mortals;  into  the 
mysterious  shadow  of  the  grave  he  will  carry  away  an 
endless  vision  of  Newborn  Freedom. 

They  had  been  awaiting  frenzied  excesses   in  the 

I  city,  but  none  took  place.     The  breath  of  liberty  en- 

/  nobled   the   people,   and   they  grew   gentle   and   tender 

|   and  chaste  in  their  demonstrations  of  joy.     They  only 

gazed  at  one  another,  they  caressed  one  another  with  a 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        23 

cautious  touch  of  the  hand ;  it  is  so  sweet  to  caress  a 
free  creature  and  to  look  into  his  eyes.  And  no  one 
was  hanged.  There  was  found  a  madman  who  shouted 
in  the  crowd:  "Long  live  the  Twentieth!"  twirled  his 
mustache  and  prepared  himself  for  the  brief  struggle 
and  the  lengthy  agony  in  the  clutches  of  a  maddened 
throng.  And  some  frowned,  while  others,  the  large 
majority,  merely  wonderingly  and  curiously  regarding 
the  hairbrained  fellow,  as  a  crowd  of  sightseers  might 
gape  at  some  curious  simian  from  Brazil.  And  they 
let  him  go. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  they  remembered  the 
Twentieth.  A  crowd  of  citizens  who  refused  to  part 
with  the  great  day  decided  to  roam  around  until  day 
break.  By  chance  they  bethought  themselves  of  the 
Twentieth  and  wended  their  way  to  the  tower.  That 
black  structure  merged  into  the  darkness  of  the  sky 
and  at  the  moment  when  the  citizens  approached  seemed 
to  be  in  the  act  of  swallowing  a  little  star.  Some  stray 
bright  little  star  came  close  to  it,  flashed  for  a  moment 
and  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  Very  close  to  the 
ground,  in  a  lower  tier  of  the  tower,  two  lighted  win 
dows  shone  out  into  the  darkness.  There  the  faithful 
custodians  kept  their  unceasing  vigil.  The  clock  struck 
the  hour  of  two. 

"Does  he  or  does  he  not  know?"  inquired  one  of 
the  visitors  vainly  attempting  to  make  out  with  his 
glance  the  contours  of  the  pile,  as  if  endeavoring  to 
solve  its  secrets.  A  dark  silhouette  now  detached  itself 
from  the  wall,  and  a  dull,  weary  voice  responded: 

"He  is  asleep,  citizen." 

"Who  are  you,  citizen?  You  startled  me.  You  walk 
as  softly  as  a  cat!" 


24        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

Other  dark  silhouettes  now  approached  from  various 
quarters  and  mutely  confronted  the  newcomers. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?  If  you  are  a  specter, 
please  vanish  without  delay ;  the  assembly  has  abolish 
ed  specters." 

But  the  stranger  wearily  replied :  "We  watch  the 
tyrant." 

"Did  the  commune  appoint  you?" 
"No.     We  appointed  ourselves.     There  are  thirty-six 
of  us.     There  had  been  thirty-seven,  but  one  died;  we 
watch  the   tyrant.     We  have  lived  near  this  wall  for 
two  months  or  longer.    We  are  very  weary." 

"The  nation  thanks  you.  Do  you  know  what  hap 
pened  to-day?" 

"Yes,  we  heard  something.    We  watch  the  tyrant." 

"Have  you  heard  that  we  are  a  republic  now?  That 
we  have  liberty?" 

"Yes,  but  we  watch  the  tyrant  and  we  are  weary." 

"Let  us  embrace,  brothers!" 

Cold  lips  wearily  touch  the  burning  lips  of  the  vi 
sitors. 

"We  are  weary.  He  is  so  cunning  and  dangerous.- 
Day  and  night  we  watch  the  doors  and  the  windows. 
I  watch  that  window;  you  could  hardly  distinguish  it. 
So  you  say  we  have  liberty?  Very  good.  But  we  must 
go  back  to  our  posts.  Be  calm,  citizens.  He  is  asleep. 
We  receive  reports  every  half  hour.  He  is  sleeping 
now." 

The  silhouettes  moved,  separated  themselves  and 
vanished  as  if  they  had  gone  right  through  the  walls. 
The  gloomy  old  tower  seemed  to  have  grown  taller,  and 
from  one  of  the  battlements  there  stretched  over  the 
city  a  dark  and  shapeless  cloud.  It  seemed  as  if  the 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        25 

tower  had  grown  out  of  all  proportion  and  was  stretch 
ing  its  hand  over  the  city.  A  light  flashed  from  the 
dense  blackness  of  the  wall  and  suddenly  vanished,  like 
a  signal.  The  cloud  now  covered  the  'whole  city  and 
reflected  with  a  yellowish  gleam  the  lurid  glare  of 
many  fires.  A  drizzling  rain  suddenly  commenced  to 
descend.  All  was  silent  and  all  was  restless. 
Was  he  really  sleeping? 

PART  V. 

A  few  more  days  passed  in  the  new  and  delicious 
sensations  of  freedom,  and  again  new  threads  of  distrust 
and  fear  appeared  like  dark  veins  running  through  white 
marble.  The  tyrant  received  the  news  of  his  overthrow 
with  suspicious  calmness.  How  can  a  man  be  calm 
when  deprived  of  a  kingdom,  unless  he  be  planning 
something  terrible?  And  how  can  the  people  be  calm, 
when  in  their  midst  there  lives  a  mysterious  one  having 
the  gift  of  pernicious  enchantment?  Overthrown,  he 
continues  to  be  terrible;  imprisoned  he  demonstrates 
at  will  his  diabolical  power  which  grows  with  distance. 
Thus  the  earth,  black  at  close  range,  appears  like  a  shin 
ing  star  when  seen  from  the  depths  of  azure  space.  And 
in  his  immediate  surroundings  his  sufferings  move  to 
tears.  A  woman  was  seen  to  kiss  the  hand  of  the  queen. 
A  guard  was  observed  drying  his  tears.  An  orator  was 
heard  appealing  for  mercy.  As  if  even  now  he  were 
not  happier  than  thousands  of  people  who  had  never 
seen  the  light?*  Who  could  warrant  that  on  the  morrow 
the  land  would  not  return  to  its  ancient  madness,  crawl 
ing  in  the  dust  before  him,  begging  his  pardon  and 
rearing  anew  his  throne  which  it  cost  so  much  labor 
and  pain  to  overthrow! 


26        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

Bristling  with  frenzy  and  terror  the  millions  are 
listening  to  the  speeches  in  the  popular  assembly.  Cur 
ious  speeches.  Terrifying  words.  They  speak  of  his 
inviolability;  they-.say  he  is  sacro-sanct,  that  he  may 
not  be  judged 'Hfe  others  are  judged,  that  he  may  not 
be  punished  Hk^  others  are  punished,  that  he  may  not 
be  put  to  death,  for  he  is  the  King.  Consequently  Kings 
still  exist!  And  these  words  are  spoken  by  those  who 
have  sworn  to  love  the  people  and  liberty;  the  words 
are  uttered  by  men  of  tried  honesty,  by  sworn  foes  of 
tyranny,  by  the  sons  of  the  people  who  came  forth  from 
the  loins  of  those  that  were  scarred  by  the  merciless 
and  sacrilegious  rule  of  the  Kings.  Ominous  blindness ! 

Already  the  majority  is  inclining  in  favor  of  the 
overthrown  one;  as  if  a  dense  yellow  fog  issuing  forth 
from  that  tower  had  forced  its  way  into  the  holy  man 
sions  of  the  people's  mind,  blinding  their  bright  eyes4 
strangling  their  newly  gained  freedom;  thus  a  bride 
adorned  with  white  blossoms  might  meet  death  in  the 
hour  of  her  bridal  triumph.  Dull  despair  creeps  into 
the  heart,  and  many  hands  convulsively  stroke  the  trust 
ed  blade;  it  is  better  to  die  with  Brutus  than  to  live 
with  Octavianus. 

Final  remonstrances  full  of  deadly  indignation. 

"Do  you  wish  to  have  one  man  in  the  land  and 
thirty-five  million  animals?" 

Yes,  they  wish  it.  They  stand  silent  with  down 
cast  eyes.  They  are  weary  of  fighting,  weary  of  exer 
cising  their  will,  and  in  their  lassitude,  in  their  yawning 
and  stretching,  in  their  colorless  cold  words  which,  how 
ever,  have  a  magic  effect,  one  almost  fancies  the  con 
tour  of  a  throne.  Scattered  exclamations,  dull  speeches, 
and  the  blind  silence  of  unanimous  treachery.  Liberty 
is  perishing,  the  luckless  bride  adorned  with  white  bios- 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD       27 

soms,  who  has  met  her  doom  in  the  hour  of  her  bridal 
triumph. 

But  hark!  The  sound  of  marching.  They  are  com 
ing;  like  the  sound  of  dozens  of  gigantic  drums  beating 
a  wild  tattoo.  Tramp  !  Tramp !  Tramp !  They  come  from 
the  suburbs.  Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp!  They  march  in 
defense  of  liberty.  Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp!  Woe  unto 
traitors!  Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp!  Traitors,  beware! 

"The  People  ask  permission  to  march  past  the  as 
sembly." 

But  who  could  stop  an  avalanche?  Who  would  dare 
tell  an  earthquake,  "So  far  and  no  further  shalt  thou 
go!" 

The  doors  are  thrown  open.  There  they  come  from 
the  suburbs.  Their  faces  are  the  color  of  the  earth. 
Their  breasts  are  bared.  An  endless  kaleidoscope  of 
motley  rags  that  serve  for  raiment.  A  triumph  of  im 
pulsive,  uncontrolled  movements.  An  ominous  harmony 
of  disorder.  A  marching  chaos.  Tramp !  Tramp !  Tramp ! 
Eyes  flashing  fire!  Prongs,  scythes,  tridents,  fenceposts. 
Men,  women  and  children.  Tramp !  Tramp !  Tram{p ! 

"Long  live  the  representatives  of  the  people!  Long 
live  liberty!  Death  to  traitors!" 

The  deputies  smile,  frown,  bow  amiably.  They  grow 
dizzy  watching  the  motley  procession  that  seems  to 
have  no  end.  It  looks  like  a  torrential  stream  rushing 
through  a  cavern.  All  faces  begin  to  look  alike.  All 
shouts  merge  into  one  uniform  and  solid  roar.  The 
tramp  of  the  feet  resembles  the  patter  of  raindrops  upon 
the  roof,  a  sporific,  will-subduing  sound  which  dominates 
consciousness.  A  gigantic  roof,  gigantic  raindrops. 

Tramp !  Tramp !  Tramp !  One  hour  passes,  then  two, 
then  three,  and  still  they  are  filing  past.  The  torches 


28        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

burn  with  a  crimson  glare  and  emit  smoke.  Both  open 
ings,  the  one  through  which  the  people  enter  and  the 
one  through  which  they  file  out  are  like  yawning  jaws; 
and  it  is  as  if  some  black  ribbon,  gleaming  with  copper 
and  iron,  stretched  from  one  door  and  through  the  other. 
Fanciful  pictures  now  present  themselves  to  the  weary 
eye.  Now  it  is  an  endless  belt,  now  a  titanic,  swollen 
and  hairy  worm.  Those  sitting  above  the  doors  imagine 
themselves  standing  on  a  bridge  and  feel  like  floating 
away.  Now  and  then  the  clear  and  unusually  vivid  re 
alization  comes  to  one's  mind:  it  is  the  people.  And 
pride,  and  consciousness  of  the  power  and  the  thirst  for 
great  freedom  such  as  has  never  been  known  before. 
A  free  people,  what  happiness! 

Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp!  They  have  been  marching 
for  eight  hours  and  still  the  end  is  not  yet.  From  both 
sides,  where  the  people  enter  and  where  they  file  out, 
rode  the  thunderous  notes  of  the  song  of  the  revolution. 
The  words  can  be  hardly  heard.  Only  the  time,  the 
cadences  and  the  notes  are  plainly  distinguished.  Mo 
mentary  stillness  and  threating  shouts.  "To  arms,  cit 
izens!  Gather  into  battalions!  Let  us  go!  Let  us  go!" 

They  go. 

No  need  of  a  vote.    Liberty  is  safe  once  more. 

PART  VI. 

Then  came  the  fateful  day  of  the  royal  judgment. 
The  mysterious  power,  ancient  as  the  world,  was  called 
upon  to  answer  for  its  misdeeds  to  the  very  people  it 
had  so  long  held  in  bondage.  It  was  called  upon  to 
answer  to  the  world  which  it  dishonored  by  the  triumph 
of  its  absurdity.  Stripped  of  its  cap  and  bells,  deprived 
of  its  gaudy  throne,  of  its  high-sounding  titles  and  of 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        29 

all  those  queer  symbols  of  dominion,  naked  it  will  stand 
before  the  people  and  will  tell  by  whose  right  and 
authority  it  had  exercised  its  rule  over  millions,  vesting 
in  the  person  of  one  being  the  power  to  do  wrong  with 
impunity,  to  rob  men  of  their  freedom,  to  inflict  punish 
ment  and  death.  But  the  Twentieth  has  been  judged 
already  by  the  conscience  of  the  people.  No  mercy  will 
be  shown  him.  Yet,  ere  he  goes  to  his  doom,  let  him 
unbosom  himself,  let  him  acquaint  the  people,  not  with 
his  deeds,  they  are  sufficiently  well  known  to  them,  but 
with  the  thoughts,  the  motives  and  the  feelings  of  a 
king.  That  mythical  dragon  who  devours  children  and 
virgins,  who  has  held  the  world  in  thrall,  is  now  securely 
fettered  and  bound  with  heavy  chains.  He  will  be  taken 
to  the  public  square  and  soon  the  people  will  see  his 
scaly  trunk,  his  venomous  fangs  and  the  cruel  jaws  that 
exhale  fierce  flames. 

Some  plot  was  feared.  All  night  long  troops  had 
marched  through  the  tranquil  streets,  filling  the  squares 
and  passages,  fencing  in  the  route  of  the  royal  proces 
sion  with  rows  of  gleaming  bayonets,  surrounding  it 
with  a  wall  of  somber  and  sternly  solemn  faces.  Above 
the  black  silhouettes  of  buildings  and  churches,  that 
loomed  sharp,  square-shaped  and  strangely  indistinct  in 
the  twilight  of  the  early  dawn,  there  appeared  the  first 
faint  gleam  of  the  yellow  and  cloudy  sky,  the  cold  sky 
of  the  city,  looking  as  aged  as  the  houses  and,  like  them, 
covered  with  soot  and  rust.  It  resembled  some  painting 
hanging  in  a  dark  hall  of  an  ancient  baronial  castle. 

The  city  slept  in  anxious  anticipation  of  the  great 
and  portentous  day,  while  on  the  streets  the  citizen-sol 
diers  moved  quietly  in  well-formed  ranks,  striving  to 
muffle  the  sounds  of  their  heavy  footsteps.  The  low 
browed  cannon,  almost  grazing  the  ground  with  their 


30        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

chins,  rattled  insolently  over  the  roadways  with  the 
ruddy  glare  of  a  fuse  on  each  piece  of  ordnance. 

Orders  were  given  in  a  subdued  tone,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  as  if  the  commanders  feared  to  waken  some 
light  and  suspicious  sleeper.  Whether  they  feared  for 
the  king  and  his  safety,  or  whether  they  feared  the  king 
himself,  no  one  knew.  But  everybody  knew  that  there 
was  need  of  preparation,  need  of  summoning  the  entire 
strength  of  the  people. 

The  morning  would  dawn,  but  slowly ;  massive  yel 
low  clouds,  bushy  and  grimy  as  if  they  had  been  rubbed 
with  a  filthy  cloth,  hung  over  the  church  spires,  and 
only  as  the  king  emerged  from  the  tower  the  sun  burst 
into  radiance  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds.  Happy  augury 
for  the  people,  ominous  warning  for  the  tyrant! 

And  thus  was  he  taken  from  prison ;  through  a 
narrow  lane  formed  by  two  solid  lines  of  troops  there 
moved  companies  of  armed  soldiers — one,  two,  ten,  you 
could  not  have  counted  their  number.  Then  came  the 
guns,  rattling,  rattling,  rattling.  Then  gripped  in  the 
vicelike  embrace  of  rifles,  sabers  and  bayonets  came  the 
carriage,  scarcely  able  to  proceed.  And  again  fresh  guns 
and  companies  of  soldiers.  And  all  through  that  jour 
ney  of  many  miles  silence  preceded  the  carriage,  and 
was  behind  it  and  all  around  it.  At  one  point  in  the 
public  square  there  were  heard  a  few  tentative  shouts, 
"Death  to  the  Twentieth!"  But  finding  no  support  in 
the  crowd,  the  shouts  subsided.  Thus  in  the  chase  of  a 
wild  boar  only  the  inexperienced  dogs  are  heard  bark 
ing,  but  those  who  will  maim  and  be  maimed  are  silent, 
gathering  wrath  and  strength. 

In  the  assembly  there  reigns  an  excitedly  subdued 
hubbub  of  conversation.  They  have  been  expecting  for 
some  hours*  the  coming  of  the  tyrant,  who  approaches 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        31 

with  snail-like  pace;  the  deputies  walk  about  the  cor 
ridors  in  agitation,  every  moment  changing  their  posi 
tions,  laughing  without  apparent  cause  and  animatedly 
gossiping  about  any  trivial  thing.  But  many  are  sitting 
motionless,  like  statues  of  stone,  and  their  expression  is 
also  stonelike.  Their  faces  are  young,  but  the  furrows 
thereon  are  deep  and  old,  as  if  hewn  by  an  ax,  and  their 
hair  is  rough ;  their  eyes  either  ominously  hidden  in  the 
cavernous  depths  of  the  skull  or  intently  drawn  forward, 
wide  and  comprehensive,  as  if  not  shaded  by  eyebrows, 
like  torches  burning  in  the  gloomy  recesses  of  a  prison. 
There  is  no  terror  on  earth  which  these  eyes  could  not 
gaze  on  without  a  tremor.  There  is  no  cruelty,  no  sor 
row,  no  spectral  horror  before  which  this  glance  would 
flinch,  hardened  as  they  had  been  in  the  furnace  of  the 
revolution.  Those  who  were  the  first  to  launch  the 
great  movement  have  long  since  died  and  their  ashes 
have  been  scattered  abroad;  they  are  forgotten,  forgot 
ten  are  their  ideas,  aspirations  and  yearnings.  The  one 
time  thunder  of  their  speeches  is  like  the  rattle  in  the 
hands  of  a  babe ;  the  great  freedom  of  which  they  dreamt 
now  seems  like  the  crib  of  a  child  with  a  canopy  to 
protect  it  from  flies  and  the  glare  of  daylight.  But  these 
have  grown  up  amid  the  storms  and  live  in  the  tempest ; 
they  are  the  darling  children  of  tumultuous  days,  of 
blood-reeking  heads  borne  aloft  on  lances  like  pumpkins, 
of  massive  and  mighty  hearts  made  to  give  forth  blood ; 
of  titanic  orations,  where  a  word  is  sharper  than  the 
dagger  and  an  idea  more  pitiless  than  gunpowder.  Obe 
dient  only  to  the  will  of  the  people  they  have  summoned 
the  specter  of  imperious  power,  and  now,  cold  and  pas 
sionless,  like  surgeons  dissecting  a  corpse,  like  judges, 
like  executioners,  they  will  analyze  its  ghostly  bluish 
effulgence  which  so  awes  the  ignorant  and  the  supersti- 


32        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

tious,  they  will  dissect  its  spectral  members,  they  will 
discover  the  black  venom  of  tyranny,  and  they  will  let 
it  pass  to  its  doom. 

Now  the  hubbub  outside  grows  faint,  and  stillness 
profound  and  black  as  the  heavens  at  night  ensues ;  now 
the  rattle  of  approaching  cannon.  This,  too,  subsides. 
A  slight  commotion  near  the  entrance.  Everybody  is 
seated;  they  must  be  sitting  when  the  tyrant  enters. 
They  strive  to  look  unconcerned.  Heavy  tramping  of 
troops  placed  in  various  stations  about  the  building  and 
a  subdued  clanging  of  arms.  The  last  of  the  cannon 
outside  conclude  their  noisy  peregrination.  Like  a  ring 
of  steel  they  surround  the  buildings,  their  jaws  pointing 
outward,  facing  the  whole  world — the  west  and  the  east, 
the  north  and  the  south.  Something  looking  quite  in 
significant  entered  the  hall.  Seen  from  the  more  distant 
benches  higher  up  it  appeared  to  be  a  fat,  undersized 
manikin  with  swift  uncertain  movements.  Observed  at 
close  range  it  was  seen  to  be  a  stout  man  of  medium 
height,  with  a  prominent  nose  that  was  crimson  with 
the  cold,  baggy  cheeks  and  dull  little  eyes,  an  expres 
sive  mixture  of  good  nature,  insignificance  and  stupidity. 
He  turns  his  head,  not  knowing  whether  to  bow  or  not, 
and  then  nods  lightly;  he  stands  in  indecision,  with  feet 
spread  apart,  not  knowing  whether  he  may  sit  down  or 
not.  Not  a  word  is  heard,  but  there  is  a  chair  behind 
him,  evidently  intended  for  him,  and  he  sits  down,  first 
unobtrusively,  then  more  firmly,  and  finally  assumes  a 
majestic  posture.  He  has  evidently  a  severe  cold,  for 
he  draws  from  his  pocket  a  handkerchief  and  uses  it 
with  apparent  enjoyment,  emitting  a  loud  and  trumpet- 
like  sound.  Then  he  pulls  himself  together,  pockets 
his  handkerchief  and  grows  majestically  rigid.  He  is 
ready.  Such  is  the  Twentieth. 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        33 

PART  VII. 

They  had  been  expecting  a  King,  but  there  appeared 
before  them  a  clown.  They  had  been  expecting  a  dra 
gon,  but  there  came  a  big-nosed  buorgeois  with  a  hand 
kerchief  and  a  bad  cold.  It  was  funny,  and  curious  and 
a  little  uncanny.  Had  not  someone  substituted  a  pre 
tender  in  his  place?  "It  is  I,  the  King,"  says  the  Twen 
tieth. 

Yes,  it  is  he,  indeed.  How  funny  he  is!  Think  of 
him  for  a  King!  The  people  smiled,  shrugged  their 
shoulders  and  could  hardly  refrain  from  laughter.  They 
exchanged  mocking  smiles  and  salutes  and  seemed  to 
inquire  in  the  language  of  signs:  "Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  Him?"  The  deputies  were  very  serious  and  pale. 
Undoubtedly  the  feeling  of  responsibility  oppressed 
them.  But  the  people  were  merry  in  a  quiet  way.  How 
had  they  managed  to  make  their  way  into  the  assembly 
hall  ?  How  does  water  trickle  through  a  hole  ?  They  had 
penetrated  through  some  broken  windows,  they  had  al 
most  slipped  through  the  keyholes.  Hundreds  of  ragged 
and  phantastically  attired  but  extremely  courteous  and 
affable  strangers.  Crowding  a  deputy  they  solicitously 
inquired:  "Hope  I  am  not  in  your  way,  citizen?"  They 
were  very  polite.  Like  quaint  birds,  they  clung  in  dark 
rows  to  the  window  sills,  obstructing  the  light  and  seem 
ed  to  be  signalling  something  to  the  people  in  the  square 
outside.  It  was  apparently  something  funny. 

But  the  deputies  are  serious,  very  serious  and  even 
pale.  They  fix  their  eager  eyes  like  magnifying  lenses 
upon  the  Twentieth,  gazing  upon  him  long  and  intently, 
and  turn  away  frowning.  Some  have  closed  their  eyes 
altogether.  They  loathe  the  sight  of  the  tyrant.  "Cit 
izen  deputy,"  exclaims  with  delighted  awe  one  of  the 


34        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

courteous  strangers;  "see  how  the  tyrant's  eyes  are 
glowing."  Without  raising  his  drooping  eyelids  the 
deputy  replies,  "Yes!" 

"How  well  nourished  he  looks." 

"Yes." 

"But  you  are  not  very  talkative,  citizen!" 

Silence  again.  There  below  the  Twentieth  is  al 
ready  mumbling  his  speech.  He  can  not  understand  of 
what  he  could  be  accused.  He  had  always  loved  the 
people  and  the  people  loved  him;  and  he  still  loved  the 
people  in  spite  of  all  insults.  If  the  people  think  a  Re 
public  would  suit  them  better,  let  them  have  a  republic.  / 
He  has  nothing  against  it. 

"But  why  then  did  you  summon  other  tyrants?" 

"I  did  not  summon  them;  they  came  of  their  own 
accord." 

This  answer  is  false.  Documents  had  been  found  in 
a  secret  drawer  establishing  the  fact  of  the  negotiations. 
But  he  insists,  clumsily  and  stupidly,  like  any  ordinary 
rascal  caught  cheating.  He  even  looks  offended.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  he  has  always  had  the  best  interests  of 
the  people  at  heart.  No,  he  has  not  been  cruel;  he  al 
ways  pardoned  whomever  he  could  pardon.  No,  he  has 
not  ruined  the  land  by  his  extravagance,  he  only  used 
for  himself  as  much  as  an  ordinary  plain  citizen  might. 
He  had  never  been  a  profligate  or  a  wastrel.  He  is  a 
lover  of  Greek  and  Latin  classical  literature  and  of  cab 
inet  making.  All  the  furniture  in  his  study  is  the  work 
of  his  hands.  So  much  is  correct.  To  look  at  him,  he 
certainly  had  the  appearance  of  a  plain  citizen ;  there  are 
multitudes  of  stout  fellows  like  him  with  noses  that 
emit  trumpet-like  sounds ;  they  may  be  met  a-plenty  on 
the  riverside  of  a  holiday,  fishing.  Insignificant  funny 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        35 

men  with  big  noses.     But  he  had  been  a  King!  What 
could  it  mean?  Then  anybody  could  be  a  King! 

A  gorilla  might  become  an  absolute  ruler  over  men ! 
And  a  golden  throne  might  be  reared  for  it  to  sit  on! 
And  divine  honor  might  be  paid  to  it,  and  it  might  lay 
dawn  the  laws  of  life  for  the  people.  A  hoary  gorilla, 
a  pitiful  survival  of  the  forest! 

The  brief  autumn  day  is  drawing  to  a  close,  and 
the  people  begin  to  express  impatience.  Why  bother 
so  long  with  the  tyrant?  What,  is  there  some  new  trea 
chery  being  hatched?  In  the  twilight  of  an  ante-chamber 
two  deputies  meet.  They  scrutinize  one  another  and 
exchange  a  glance  of  mutual  recognition.  Then  they 
walk  together,  for  some  reason  avoiding  contact  with 
their  bodies. 

"But  where  is  the  tyrant?"  suddenly  exclaims  one 
of  them  and  grasps  the  shoulder  of  his  companion,  "Tell 
me,  where  is  the  tyrant?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  feel  too  ashamed  to  enter  the 
hall." 

"Horrible  thought!  Is  insignificance  the  secret  of 
tyranny?  Are  nonentities  our  real  tyrants?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  am  ashamed." 

The  little  ante-chamber  was  quiet,  but  from  all  sides, 
from  the  assembly  hall  and  from  the  public  square  out 
side,  there  was  heard  a  dull  roaring.  Each  individual 
perhaps  spoke  in  low  tones,  but  altogether  the  result 
was  an  elemental  turmoil  like  the  roaring  of  the  distant 
ocean.  A  ruddy  glare  seemed  to  be  flitting  over  the 
walls,  evidently  men  outside  were  lighting  their  torches. 
Then  not  afar  off  was  heard  the  measured  tramping  of 
feet  and  the  subdued  rattle  of  arms.  They  were  reliev 
ing  the  watches.  Whom  are  they  watching?  What  is 
the  use? 


36        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

"Drive  him  out  of  the  country!"  "No.  The  people 
will  not  permit  it.  He  must  be  killed."  "But  that  would 
be  another  wrong." 

The  ruddy  spots  seem  now  climbing  up  and  down 
along  the  walls,  and  spectral  shadows  make  their  appear 
ance,  now  creeping,  now  leaping;  as  if  the  bloody  days 
of  the  past  and  of  the  present  were  passing  in  review 
in  an  endless  procession  through  the  visions  of  a  dream 
er.  The  turmoil  outside  grows  more  boisterous;  one 
can  almost  discern  individual  shouts.  "For  the  first  time 
in  my  life,  to-day  a  feeling  of  dread  has  seized  my 
heart." 

"Likewise  of  despair,  and  of  shame." 

"Yes,  and  of  despair!  Let  me  have  your  hand, 
brother.  How  cold  it  is.  Here  in  the  face  of  unknown 
perils  and  in  the  hour  of  a  great  humiliation,  let  us 
swear  that  we  will  not  betray  freedom.  We  shall  perish. 
I  felt  it  to-day.  But  perishing  let  us  shout,  "Liberty, 
liberty,  brothers!"  "Let  us  shout  it  so  loud  that  a  world 
of  slaves  shall  quake  with  fear.  Clasp  my  hand  tighter, 
brother." 

It  was  still  now ;  here  and  there  crimson  spots  flared 
up  along  the  walls,  while  the  misty  shadows  moved  with 
swiftness,  but  the  abyss  below  roared  and  thundered 
with  increasing  fury,  as  if  a  dreadful  and  mighty  hur 
ricane  had  come  sweeping  onward  from  the  north  and 
the  south,  from  the  west  and  the  east,  and  had  stirred 
the  multitude  with  its  terror.  Fragments  of  songs  and 
howls  and  one  word  as  if  sketched  in  stupendous  jag 
ged  black  outlines  in  the  chaos  of  sounds: 

"Death !  Death  to  the  Tyrant !" 

The  two  'deputies  were  standing  lost  in  a  reverie. 
Time  passed  on,  but  still  they  stood  there,  unmoved  in 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        37 

the  maddened  chase  of  shadow  shapes  and  smoke,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  standing  there  for  ages. 
Thousands  of  spectral  years  surrounded  them  with  the 
mighty  and  majestic  silence  of  eternity,  while  the  sha 
dows  whirled  on  frenziedly,  and  the  shouts  rose  and  fell 
beating  against  the  window  like  windswept  breakers. 
At  times  the  weird  and  mysterious  rhythm  of  the  surf 
could  be  discerned  in  the  turmoil  and  the  thunderous 
roar  of  the  breaking  waves.  "Death!  Death  to  the 
tyrant!"  At  last  they  stirred  from  the  spot. 

"Well  let  us  go  in  there !"  "Let  us  go  in !  Fool  that 
I  was!  I  had  thought  that  this  day  would  end  the  fight 
with  tyranny."  "The  fight  is  just  commencing.  Let  us 
go  in!" 

They  passed  through  dark  corridors  and  dawn 
marble  stairways,  through  chilly  and  silent  halls  that 
are  as  damp  as  cellars.  Suddenly  a  gleam  of  light,  a 
wave  of  heated  air  like  the  breath  of  a  furnace,  a  hubbub 
of  voices  like  a  hundred  caged  parrots  talking  against 
time.  Then  another  doorway  and  at  their  feet  there 
opens  an  immense  chasm,  littered  with  heads,  semi-dark 
and  filled  with  smoke.  Reddish  tongues  of  candles 
stifling  for  want  of  fresh  air.  Someone  is  speaking  some 
where.  Thunderous  applause.  The  speech  is  apparently 
ended.  At  the  very  bottom  of  the  abyss,  between  two 
flickering  lights  is  the  small  figure  of  the  Twentieth.  He 
is  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead  with  a  hand 
kerchief,  bends  low  over  the  table  and  reads  something 
with  an  indistinct  mumbling  voice.  He  is  reading  his 
speech  of  defense.  How  hot  he  feels!  Ho,  Twentieth! 
Remember  that  you  are  king.  Raise  your  voice  en 
noble  the  ax  and  the  executioner!  No!  He  mumbles  on, 
tragically  serious  in  his  stupidity. 


38        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 
PART  VIII. 

Many  watched  the  execution  of  the  king  from  the 
roofs,  but  even  the  roofs  were  not  sufficient  to  accom 
modate  the  sight-seers  and  many  did  not  succeed  after 
all  in  seeing  how  kings  are  executed.  But  the  high  and 
narrow  houses,  with  the  queer  coiffure  of  mobile  crea 
tures  instead  of  roofs  seemed  to  have  become  endowed 
with  life,  and  their  opened  windows  resembled  black, 
winking  eyes.  Behind  the  houses  rose  church  spires 
and  towers,  some  pointed  and  others  blunt,  and  at  first 
glance  they  looked  the  same  as  usual,  but  on  closer  ob 
servation  they  appeared  to  be  dotted  with  dark  trans 
verse  lines  which  seemed  to  be  swaying  to  and  fro ;  they, 
too,  were  crowded  with  people.  Nothing*  could  be  seen 
from  so  great  a  height,  but  they  looked  on  just  the 
same.  Seen  from  the  roofs  of  houses  the  scaffold  seemed 
as  small  as  a  child's  plaything,  something  like  a  toy  bar 
row  with  broken  handles.  The  few  persons  who  stood 
apart  from  the  sight-seers'  and  in  the  immediate  neigh 
borhood  of  the  scaffold,  the  only  few  persons  who  stood 
by  themselves  (the  rest  of  the  people  having  been 
merged  into  a  dense  mass  of  black), those  few  persons 
standing  by  themselves  oddly  resembled  tiny  black  ants 
walking  erect.  Everything  seemed  to  be  on  a  level,  and 
yet  they  laboriously  and  slowly  ascended  invisible 
steps.  And  it  seemed  strange  that  right  beside  one, 
upon  the  neighboring  roofs,  there  stood  people  with 
large  heads,  mouths  and  noses.  The  drums  beat  loudly. 
A  little  black  coach  drove  up  to  the  scaffold.  For  quite 
a  little  while  nothing  could  be  discerned.  Then  a  little 
group  separated  itself  from  the  mass  and  very  slowly 
ascended  some  invisible  steps.  Then  the  group  dispersed, 
leaving  in  the  center  a  tiny  looking  individual.  The 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        39 

drums  beat  again  and  one's  heart  stood  still.  Suddenly 
the  tattoo  came  to  an  end  hoarsely  and  brokenly  All 
was  still.  The  tiny  lone  figure  raised  its  hand,  dropped 
it  and  raised  it  again.  It  is  evidently  speaking,  but  not 
a  word  is  heard.  What  is  it  saying?  What  is  it  saying? 
Suddenly  the  drums  broke  into  a  tattoo,  scattering  ab 
road  their  martial  beats,  and  rending  the  air  into  myri 
ads  of  particles  which  hindered  one  from  seeing.  Com 
motion  on  the  scaffold.  The  little  figure  has  vanished. 
He  is  being  executed.  The  drums  beat  again  and  all 
of  a  sudden,  hoarsely  and  brokenly,  cease  from  their 
tumult.  On  the  spot  where  the  Twentieth  had  stood 
just  a  moment  before  there  is  a  new  little  figure  with 
extended  hand.  And  in  that  hand  there  is  seen  some 
thing  tiny,  that  is  light  on  one  side  and  dark  on  the 
other,  like  a  pin  head  dyed  in  two  colors.  It  is  the  head 
of  the  King.  At  last !  The  coffin,  with  the  body  and  the 
head  of  the  King,  was  rushed  off  somewhere,  and  the 
conveyance  that  bore  it  away  drove  off  at  a  breakneck 
speed,  crushing  the  people  in  its  path.  It  was  feared 
that  the  frenzied  populace  would  not  spare  even  the  re 
mains  of  the  tyrant.  But  the  people  were  terrible  in 
deed.  Imbued  with  the  ancient  slavish  fear  they  could 
not  bring  themselves  to  believe  that  it  had  really  taken 
place,  that  the  inviolable  sacrosanct  and  potent  sove 
reign  had  placed  his  head  under  the  ax  of  the  execu 
tioner:  desperately  and  blindly  they  besieged  the  scaf 
fold;  eyes  very  often  play  tricks  on  one  and  the  ears 
deceive.  They  must  touch  the  scaffold  with  their  hands, 
they  must  breathe  in  the  odor  of  royal  blood,  steep  their 
arms  in  it  up  to  the  elbows.  They  fought,  scrambled, 
fell  and  screamed.  There  something  soft,  like  a  bundle 
of  rags,  rolls  under  the  feet  of  the  crowd.  It  is  the 
body  of  one  crushed  to  death.  Then  another  and  ano- 


40        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

ther.  Having  fought  their  way  to  the  heap  of  ruins 
which  remained  of  the  scaffold,  with  feverish  hands  they 
broke  off  fragments  of  it,  scraping  them  off  with  their 
nails;  they  demolished  the  scaffold  greedily,  blindly 
grabbing  heavy  beams,  and  after  a  step  or  two  fell  un 
der  the  burden.  And  the  crowd  closed  in  over  the  heads 
of  the  fallen  while  the  beams  rose  to  the  surface,  floated 
along  as  if  borne  on  some  current,  and  diving  again  it 
showed  for  a  moment  its  jagged  edge  and  then  disap 
peared.  Some  found  a  little  pool  of  blood  that  the 
thirsting  ground  had  not  yet  drained  and  that  had  not 
yet  been  trampled  under  foot,  and  they  dipped  into  it 
their  handkerchiefs  and  their  raiment.  Many  smeared 
the  blood  on  their  lips  and  imprinted  some  mysterious 
signs  on  their  foreheads,  anointing  themselves  with  the 
blood  of  the  King  to  the  new  reign  of  freedom.  They 
were  intoxicated  with  savage  delight.  Unaccompanied 
by  song  or  speech  they  whirled  in  a  breathless  dance; 
ran  about  raising  aloft  their  bloodstained  rags,  and  scat 
tered  over  the  city,  shouting,  roaring  and  laughing  in 
continently  and  strangely.  Some  attempted  to  sing, 
but  songs  were  too  slow,  too  harmonious  and  rhythm 
ical,  and  they  again  resumed  their  wild  laughing  and 
shouting.  They  started  toward  the  national  assembly 
intending  to  thank  the  deputies  for  ridding  the  land  of 
the  tyrant,  but  on  the  way  they  were  deflected  from 
their  goal  by  the  pursuit  of  a  traitor  who  shouted :  "The 
King  is  dead,  long  live  the  King!  Long  live  the  Twen 
ty-first!"  And  then  they  dispersed — after  having  hanged 
someone. 

Many  of  those  who  secretly  continued  to  be  loyal 
to  the  King  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  his  execu 
tion  and  lost  their  minds;  many  others,  though  they 
were  cowards,  committed  suicide.  Until  the  very  last 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        41 

moment  they  waited  for  something,  hoped  for  some 
thing-,  and  had  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  their  prayers.  But 
when  the  execution  had  taken  place  they  were  seized 
with  despair.  Some  grimly  and  sullenly,  others  in  sac 
rilegious  frenzy  pierced  their  hearts  with  daggers.  And 
there  were  some  who  ran  out  into  the  street  with  a  sav 
age  thirst  for  martyrdom,  and  facing  the  avalanche  of 
the  people  shouted  madly,  "Long  live  the  Twenty-first !" 
and  they  perished. 

The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close  and  the  night  was 
breaking  upon  the  city,  the  stern  and  truthful  night 
which  has  no  eyes  for  that  which  is  visible.  The  city 
was  yet  bright  with  the  glare  of  street  lights,  but  the 
river  under  the  bridge  was  as  black  as  liquid  soot,  and 
only  in  the  distance,  where  r  it  curved,  and  where  the 
last  pale  cold  gleams  of  sunset  were  dying  away,  it 
shone  dimly  like  the  cold  reflection  of  polished  metal. 
Two  men  stood  on  the  bridge,  leaning  against  its  mas 
onry,  and  peered  into  the  dark  and  mysterious  depth  of 
the  river. 

"Do  you  believe  that  freedom  really  came  to-day?" 
asked  one  of  the  twain  in  a  lo\y  tone  of  voice,  for  the 
city  was  yet  bright  with  many  lights,  while  the  river 
below  stretched  away,  wrapped  in  blackness. 

"Look,  a  corpse  is  floating  there,"  exclaimed  the 
other,  and  he  spoke  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  for  the  corpse 
was  very  near'  and  its  broad  blue  face  was  turned  up 
ward. 

"There  are  many  of  them  floating  in  the  river  these 
days.  They  are  floating  down  to  the  sea." 

"I  have  not  much  faith  in  their  liberty.  They  are 
too  happy  over  the  death  of  the  Insignificant  One." 

From  the  city  where  the  lights  were  yet  burning 
the  breeze  wafted  sounds  of  voices,  of  laughter  and  of 


42        WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD 

songs.     Merrymaking  was  still  in  progress. 

"Dominion  must  be  destroyed  yet,"  said  the  first. 

"The  slaves  must  be  destroyed.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  dominion ;  slavery  alone  exists.  There  goes 
another  corpse.  And  still  another.  How  many  there 
are  of  them.  Where  do  they  come  from?  They  appear 
so  suddenly  from  under  the  bridge!" 

"But  the  people  love  liberty." 

"No.  They  merely  fear  the  whip.  When  they  shall 
learn  to  love  liberty  they  will  become  free." 

"Let  us  go  hence.  The  sight  of  these  corpses  nau 
seates  me." 

And  as  they  turned  to  depart,  while  the  lights  were 
yet  shining  in  the  city  and  the  river  was  as  black  as  liquid 
soot,  they  beheld  something  massive  and  somber,  that 
seemed  begotten  of  darkness  and  light.  From  the  east, 
where  the  river  lost  itself  in  the  maze  of  gloom-envel 
oped  meadows,  and  where  the  darkness  was  a  stir  like  a 
thing  of  life,  there  rose  something  immense,  shapeless 
and  blind.  It  rose  and  stopped  motionless,  and  though 
it  had  no  eyes  it  looked,  and  though  it  had  no  hands, 
it  extended  them  over  the  city,  and  though  it  was  a  dead 
thing,  it  lived  and  breathed.  The  sight  was  awe  inspiring. 

"That  is  the  fog  rising  over  the  river,"  said  the  first. 

"No,  that  is  a  cloud,"  said  the  second. 

It  was  both  a  fog  and  a  cloud. 

"It  seems  to  be  looking."  It  was. 

"It  seems  to  be  listening."  It  was. 

"It  is  coming  toward  us."  No,  it. remained  motion 
less.  It  remained  motion^Fess,  immense,  shapeless  and 
blind;  upon  its  weird  excrescences  shone  with  a  ruddy' 
glow  the  reflected  gleaming  of  the  city's  lights,  and  be 
low,  at  its  foot,  the  black  river  lost  itself  in  the  embrace 
of  gloom  enveloped  meadows,  and  the  darkness  was  a 


WHEN  THE  KING  LOSES  HIS  HEAD        43 

stir  like  a  thing  of  life.  Swaying  sullenly  upon  the 
waves  corpses  floated  into  the  darkness  and  lost  them 
selves  in  the  gloom,  and  new  corpses  took  their  places, 
swaying  dumbly  and  sullenly  and  disappeared — count 
less  corpses,  silent,  thinking  their  own  thoughts,  black 
and  cold  as  the  water  that  was  carrying  them  hence. 
And  in  that  lofty  tower  from  where  early  that  morning 
the  King  had  been  taken  to  his  doom,  the  one-eyed  clock- 
maker  was  fast  asleep  right  under  the  great  pendulum. 
That  day  he  had  been  very  pleased  with  the  stillness 
that  reigned  in  his  tower.  He  even  had  burst  into  song, 
that  one-eyed  clockmaker.  Yes,  he  had  been  singing; 
and  he  walked  about  affectionately  among  his  wheels 
and  levers  until  dark.  He  felt  the  guy  ropes,  sat  on 
the  rungs  of  his  ladders,  swinging  his  feet  and  purring, 
and  would  not  look  at  the  pendulum,  pretending  that  he 
was  cross.  But  then  he  looked  at  it  sideways  and  laugh 
ed  out  loudly,  and  the  pendulum  answered  him  with  joy 
ous  peals.  It  kept  on  swinging,  smiling  all  over  its 
brazen  face  and  roaring ;  "  'Twas  ever  thus !  'Twill  ever 
be!  'Twas  ever  thus!  'Twill  ever  be!" 

"Come  now !  Come  now !"  urged  the  one-eyed  clock- 
maker,  splitting  his  sides  with  laughter.  "  'Twas  ever 
thus !  'Twift  ever  be !"  And  when  it  had  grown  quite 
dark  the  one-eyed  hermit  sought  rest  beneath  the  swing 
ing  pendulum  and  was  soon  asleep.  But  the  pendulum 
did  not  sleep,  and  kept  on  swinging  all  night  long  above 
his  head,  wafting  strange  dreams  to  the  sleeper. 

(The  End.) 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT. 


47 


CHAPTER  I. 

Jesus  Christ  had  been  frequently  warned  that  Judas 
of  Kerioth  was  a  man  of  ill  repute,  a  man  against  whom 
one  should  be  on  guard.  Some  of  the  disciples  of  Jesus 
who  had  been  to  Judea  knew  him  well  personally,  others 
had  heard  a  great  deal  of  him,  and  there  was  none  to 
say  a  good  word  concerning  him.  And  if  the  good  con 
demned  him  saying  that  Judas  was  covetous,  treacherous, 
given  to  hypocrisy  and  falsehood,  evil  men  also,  when 
questioned  about  him,  denounced  him  in  the  most  op 
probrious  terms.  "He  ahvays  sows  dissensions  among 
us"  they  would  say  spitting  contemptuously  at  the  mere 
mention  of  his  name;  "he  has  thoughts  of  his  own,  and 
creeps  into  a  house  softly  like  a  scorpion,  but  goes  out 
with  noise."  Even  thieves  have  friends,  robbers  have 
comrades,  and  liars  have  wives  to  whom  they  speak  the 
truth,  but  Judas  mocks  alike  the  thieves  and  the  honest, 
though  he  is  a  skillful  thief  himself,  and  in  appearance 
he  is  the  most  illfavored  among  the  inhabitants  of  Judea. 
"No,  he  is  not  of  us  this  Judas  of  Kerioth",  the  evil 
would  say  to  the  surprise  of  those  good  people  who  saw 
but  little  difference  betwen  them  and  other  vicious  men 
in  Judea. 

It  was  rumored  also  that  Judas  had  years  back  for 
saken  his  wife,  and  that  the  poor  woman,  hungry  and 
wretched,  was  vainly  striving  to  eke  out  her  susten 
ance  from  the  three  rocks  that  formed  the  patrimony 
of  Judas,  while  he  wandered  aimlessly  for  many  years 
among  the  nations,  reaching  in  his  travels  the  sea,  and 


48  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

even  another  sea  that  was  further  still,  lying,  cutting 
apish  grimaces  and  keenly  searching  for  something  with 
his  thievish  eye,  only  to  depart  suddenly,  leaving  in  his 
wake  unpleasantness  and  dissension, — curious,  cunning 
and  wicked  like  a  one-eyed  demon.  He  had  no  children, 
and  this  again  showed  that  Judas  was  an  evil  man,  and 
that  God  desired  no  progeny  from  him. 

None  of.  the  disciples  had  noticed  the  occasion  on 
which  this  red-haired  and  repulsive  Judean  first  came 
near  the  Christ.  But  he  had  been  going  their  way  for 
some  time  already,  unabashed,  mingling  in  their  conver 
sations,  rendering  them  small  services,  bowing,  smiling, 
ingratiating  himself.  There  were  moments  when  he 
seemed  to  fit  into  the  general  scheme,  deceiving  the 
wearied  scrutiny,  but  often  he  obtruded  himself  on  the 
eye  and  the  ear,  offending  both  as  something  incredibly 
repulsive,  false  and  loathsome.  Then  they  would  drive 
him  away  with  stern  rebuke,  and  for  a  time  he  would  be 
lost  somewhere  on  the  road,  merely  to  reappear  unob 
served,  servile,  flattering  and  cunning  like  a  one-eyed 
demon.  And  there  was  no  doubt  to  some  of  His  dis 
ciples  that  in  his  desire  to  come  near  Jesus  there  was 
hidden  some  mysterious  object,  some  evil  and  calculat 
ing  design. 

But  Jesus  did  not  heed  their  counsel ;  their  voice  of 
warning  did  not  touch  His  ear.  With  that  spirit  of  radi 
ant  contradiction  which  irrepressibly  drew  Him  to  the 
rejected  and  the  unloved,  He  resolutely  received  Judas 
and  included  him  even  in  the  circle  of  His  chosen  ones. 
The  disciples  were  agitated  and  murmured  among  them 
selves,  but  He  sat  still,  His  face  turned  to  the  setting 
sun,  and  listened  pensively, — perhaps  to  them  and  per 
haps  to  something  entirely  different.  For  ten  days  not 
a  breath  of  wind  had  stirred  the  atmosphere,  and  the 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  49 

same  diaphanous  air,  stationary,  immobile,  keen  of  scent 
and  perception  hung  over  the  earth.  And  it  seemed  as 
though  it  had  preserved  in  its  diaphanous  depth  all  that 
had  been  shouted  and  sung  during  these  days  by  man, 
beast  or  bird, — the  tears,  the  sobs  and  the  merry  songs, 
the  prayers  and  the  curses;  and  these  glassy  transfixed 
sounds  seemed  to  burden  and  satiate  it  with  invisible 
life.  And  once  more  the  sun  was  setting.  Its  flaming 
orb  was  heavily  rolling  down  the  firmament,  setting  it 
ablaze  with  its  dying  radiance,  and  all  on  earth  that  was 
turned  toward  it :  the  swarthy  face  of  Jesus,  the  walls  of 
houses  and  the  foliage  of  trees  reflected  obediently  that 
distant  and  weirdly  pensive  light.  The  white  wall  was 
no  longer  wrhite  now,  nor  did  the  crimson  city  on  the 
crimson  hill  appear  white  to  the  eye. 


And  now  came  Judas. 

He  came  humbly  bowing,  bending  his  back,  cau 
tiously  and  anxiously  stretching  out  his  misshapen  large 
head,  and  looking  just  like  those  who  knew  had  pictured 
him.  He  was  gaunt,  well  built,  in  stature  almost  as  tall 
as  Jesus,  who  was  slightly  bent  from  the  habit  of  think 
ing  while  He  walked.  And  he  seemed  to  be  sufficiently 
vigorous,  though  for  some  reason  he  pretended  to  be 
ailing  and  frail,  and  his  voice  was  changeable :  now  man 
ly  and  strong,  now  shrill  like  the  voice  of  an  old  woman 
scolding  her  husband,  thin  and  grating  on  the  ear.  And 
often  the  listener  wished  to  draw  the  words  of  Judas 
out  of  his  ears  like  some  vile  insect.  His  stubbly  red 
hair  failed  to  conceal  the  strange  and  unusual  form  of 
his  skull :  it  seemed  cleft  from  the  back  by  a  double  blow 
of  the  sword  and  patched  together.  It  was  plainly  divid 
ed  into  four  parts,  and  its  appearance  inspired  mistrust 


50  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

and  even  awe.  Such  a  skull  does  not  bode  peace  and 
concord;  such  a  skull  leaves  in  its  wake  the  noise  of 
bloody  and  cruel  conflicts.  The  face  of  Judas,  too,  was 
double :  one  side,  with  its  black,  keen,  observing  eye  was 
living,  mobile,  ready  to  gather  into  a  multitude  of  ir 
regular  wrinkles.  The  other  side  was  free  from  wrinkles, 
deathly  smooth,  flat  and  rigid ;  and  though  in  size  it  was 
equal  to  the  other,  it  seemed  immense  because  of  the 
wide-open,  sightless  eye.  Covered  with  an  opaque  film 
it  never  closed  night  or  day,  facing  alike  the  light  and 
the  darkness;  but  its  vigilant  and  cunning  mate  was  so 
close  that  one  was  loth  to  credit  its  entire  blindness. 
When  in  fear  or  excitement  Judas  happened  to  close  his 
seeing  eye  and  shake  his  head,  it  rolled  with  the  motion 
of  the  head  and  gazed  silently  and  intently.  Even  al 
together  unobserving  persons  realized  when  they  looked 
on  the  Iscariot  that  such  a  man  could  bring  no  good; 
but  Jesus  took  him  up  and  even  seated  him  at  His  side, 
at  His  very  side! 

John,  the  beloved  disciple,  moved  away  loathingly, 
while  the  others,  loving  their  Teacher,  looked  on  the 
ground  with  disapproval.  But  Judas  sat  down,  and, 
moving  his  head  to  the  left  and  to  the  right,  immediately 
commenced  to  complain  with  a  thin  voice  of  various 
ailments,  how  his  breast  pained  at  night,  how  he  was 
apt  to  lose  breath  when  walking  uphill  or  grow  dizzy  at 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  hardly  restraining  a  stupid 
desire  to  cast  himself  into  the  abyss.  And  many  other 
things  he  invented  impiously,  evidently  failing  to  grasp 
that  sickness  comes  to  man  not  by  chance  but  is  born 
from  a  failure  to  shape  his  acts  in  accord  with  the  com 
mands  of  the  Eternal.  He  rubbed  his  chest  with  his 
palm  and  coughed  hypocritically,  this  Judas  of  Kerioth, 
amid  general  silence  and  downcast  glances. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  51 

John,  avoiding  the  Teacher's  glance,  whispered  to 
Simon  Peter: — "Art  thou  not  tired  of  this  falsehood?  I 
cannot  bear  it  longer  and  I  shall  go  hence." 

Peter  looked  at  Jesus,  and  meeting  His  glance, 
swiftly  rose  to  his  feet.  "Wait!"  he  said  to  his  friend. 

Once  more  he  glanced  at  Jesus  and  then,  impetu 
ously,  like  a  rock  dislodged  from  the  mountain  side,  he 
gained  the  side  of  Judas  Iscariot  and  loudly  greeted 
him  with  a  wide  and  unmistakable  cordiality: — "Now 
you  are  with  us,  Judas!"  Then  he  amiably  slapped  the 
newcomer's  curved  back,  and  not  seeing  the  Teacher, 
though  feeling  His  glance,  he  added  with  that  loud  voice 
of  his  which  dispelled  all  objections  as  water  displaces 
air: 

"Your  bad  looks  do  not  matter.  We  get  uglier 
creatures  into  our  nets  and  they  turn  out  the  best  to 
eat.  And  it  is  not  for  us,  fishers  for  the  Lord,  to  throw 
away  our  haul  because  the  fish  is  ugly  and  one-eyed.  I 
saw  once  in  Tyre  an  octopus  caught  by  the  fishermen 
there  and  was  scared  enough  to  run.  They  laughed  at 
me,  who  am  a  fisherman  from  Tiberias,  and  gave  me  a 
taste  of  it.  And  I  asked  for  another  helping,  it  was  so 
fine.  Dost  Thou  remember,  Teacher,  I  told  Thee  of 
it  and  Thou  didst  laugh?  And  thou,  too,  Judas,  resembl- 
est  an  octopus,  at  least  one  half  of  thee  does." 

And  he  laughed  loudly,  pleased  with  his  jest.  When 
Peter  spoke,  his  words  sounded  firm  and  solid  as  though 
he  were  nailing  them  down  with  a  hammer.  When  Peter 
moved  or  did  anything  he  made  a  noise  that  was  heard 
afar  off  and  evoked  a  response  from  the  dullest  objects: 
the  stone  floor  groaned  under  his  feet,  the  doors  trembled 
and  banged,  and  the  very  air  was  thrilled.  In  the  moun 
tain  fastnesses  his  voice  woke  an  angry  echo,  and  in 
the  morning,  while  they  fished,  it  rolled  sonorously  over 


52  JUDAS  1SCARIOT 

the  somnolently  glistening  waters  and  beguiled  the  first 
timid  rays  of  the  sun  into  a  responsive  smile.  And  per 
haps  that  was  why  they  loved  Peter  so:  while  upon  the 
faces  of  others  there  rested  yet  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
his  massive  head  and  bare  bosom  and  freely  swinging 
arms  glowed  already  in  the  radiance  of  the  rising  sun. 

The  words  of  Peter,  approved  by  the  Teacher,  dis 
pelled  the  embarrassment  of  the  disciples.  But  some 
of  them,  who  had  been  to  the  seashore  and  had  seen  the 
octopus,  were  disquieted  by  the  simile  which  Peter  had 
so  frivolously  applied  to  the  new  disciple.  They  remem 
bered  the  monster's  immense  eyes,  the  multitude  of  its 
greedy  tentacles,  its  pretended  calm  at  the  very  moment 
it  was  ready  to  embrace  and  to  crush  the  victim  and  to 
suck  out  its  life,  without  a  single  wink  of  its  great  big 
eyes. 

What  was  that?  Jesus  was  silent,  Jesus  smiled;  He 
was  watching  them  with  a  kindly  smile  while  Peter 
spoke  of  the  octopus, — and  one  after  the  other  the  con 
fused  disciples  approached  Judas,  addressing  him  cordi 
ally,  but  they  walked  away  quickly  and  in  embarrass 
ment. 

And  only  John,  the  Son  of  Zebedee,  remained  ob 
stinately  silent;  and  Thomas  too  was  ruminating  over 
the  incident  and  apparently  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
to  say  anything.  He  intently  watched  Christ  and  Judas 
who  were  seated  together,  and  this  strange  proximity  of 
divine  beauty  and  monstrous  hideousness,  of  the  Man 
with  the  gentle  glance  and  the  Octopus  with  the  im 
mense,  immobile  lack-lustre,  greedy  eyes  —  oppressed 
his  mind  like  an  unfathomable  mystery.  He  strained 
and  wrinkled  his  straight  and  smooth  forehead,  half 
closing  his  eyes  in  an  effort  to  see  better,  but  his  exer 
tion  had  only  the  effect  of  making  it  appear  that  Judas 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  53 

had  really  eight  restlessly  shuffling  tentacles.  But  that 
was  an  error.  Thomas  realized  this  and  gazed  again 
with  obstinate  effort. 

But  Judas  little  by  little  grew  bolder:  he  stretched 
out  his  arms,  which  he  had  held  cramped  at  the  elbows, 
relaxed  the  muscles  that  had  kept  his  jaws  in  a  state  of 
ligidity  and  cautiously  proceeded  to  exhibit  his  redhair- 
ed  skull.  It  was  in  the  plain  view  of  all,  but  it  seemed 
to  Judas  that  it  had  been  deeply  and  impenetrably  hid 
den  from  sight  by  some  invisible,  opaque  and  cunningly 
devised  film.  And  as  one  emerging  from  the  grave,  he 
first  felt  the  rays  of  light  touching  his  strangely  shaped 
skull  and  then  his  sight  met  the  eyes  of  the  onlookers. 
He  paused  and  suddenly  revealed  his  entire  face.  But 
nothing  happened.  Peter  had  gone  somewhere  on  an 
errand.  Jesus  sat  musing  and  leaned  His  head  upon  His 
arm,  softly  swinging  His  sunburnt  foot.  The  disciples 
were  conversing  quietly  and  only  Thomas  was  attentive 
ly  and  seriously  scrutinizing  him  like  a  conscientious 
tailor  taking  his  customer's  measure.  Judas  smiled,  but 
Thomas  did  not  respond,  though  he  apparently  took  the 
smile  into  account,  like  everything  else,  and  continued  his 
scrutiny.  But  a  disquieting  sensation  annoyed  the  left  side 
of  Judas'  face  and  he  turned  around :  from  a  dark  corner 
John  was  looking  upon  him  with  his  cold  and  beautiful 
eyes,  handsome,  pure,  without  a  spot  on  his  snowwhite 
conscience.  Walking  apparently  like  other  people,  but 
with  the  inward  feeling  of  slinking  away  like  a  chastised 
dog,  Judas  approached  him  and  said: 

"Why  art  thou  silent,  John?  Thy  words  are  like 
golden  fruit  in  transparent  silver  vessels.  Give  some  of 
it  unto  Judas  who  is  so  poor." 

John  gazed  at  the  immobile  and  wide-open  eye  and 
did  not  utter  a  word.  And  he  saw  Judas  creep  away, 


54  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

linger  an  instant  irresolutely  and  disappear  in  the  dark 
ness  of  the  open  doorway. 

It  was  the  time  of  the  full  moon  and  many  took 
the  opportunity  for  a  walk.  Jesus,  too,  went  forth  with 
the  others,  and  Judas  watched  the  departing  figures  from 
the  low  roof  on  which  he  had  spread  his  bed.  In  the 
moonlight  each  figure  had  on  airy  and  deliberate  as 
pect  and  seemed  to  float,  with  its  black  shadow  in  the 
rear.  Suddenly  the  man  would  vanish  in  the  gloom  and 
then  his  voice  would  be  heard.  But  when  the  people 
emerged  again  into  the  moonlight,  they  seemed  silent 
like  the  white  walls,  like  the  black  shadows,  like  that 
transparently  hazy  and  moonlit  night. 

Most  people  were  sleeping  already  when  Judas 
heard  the  gentle  voice  of  the  homecoming  Christ.  And 
all  had  grown  still  in  the  house  and  about  him.  The 
cock  crew;  somewhere  an  ass,  disturbed  in  his  slumber, 
brayed  in  a  loud  and  injured  tone,  and  ungraciously 
stopped  again  after  a  few  protests.  But  Judas  slept  not; 
he  was  listening  intently  from  his  hiding  place.  The 
moon  illumined  one  half  of  his  face  and  its  radiance 
cast  a  queer  reflection  in  the  large  and  open  eye,  as  if 
mirroring  itself  on  a  lake  of  ice. 

Suddenly,  as  if  remembering  something,  he  coughed 
several  times  in  quick  succession,  and  rubbed  with  his 
palm  his  hairy  and  vigorous  breast:  someone  might 
be  awake  and  listening  to  the  thoughts  of  Judas. 

CHAPTER  II. 

Little  by  little  the  disciples  became  accustomed  to 
Judas  and  ceased  to  notice  his  ugliness.  Jesus  turned 
over  to  him  the  treasure  chest,  and  with  it  the  house 
hold  cares:  his  task  was  now  to  purchase  the  necessary 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  55 

food  and  raiment,  to  distribute  alms,  and  to  prepare  a 
lodging  place  during  their  wanderings.  All  this  he  ac 
complished  skillfully  and  in  a  very  short  time  he  suc 
ceeded  in  gaining  the  goodwill  of  some  of  the  disciples 
who  observed  the  pains  he  was  taking.  Judas,  indeed, 
lied  incessantly,  but  they  had  become  used  to  this  also, 
for  they  failed  to  find  any  evil  deed  in  the  wake  of  his 
lying,  and  it  added  a  peculiar  piquancy  to  his  tales  mak 
ing  life  appear  like  some  absurd,  and  at  times  terrible 
legend. 

From  Judas' tales  it  seemed  as  though  he  knew  all  men, 
and  each  man  whom  he  knew  had  at  one  time  or  another 
in  his  life  committed  an  evil  deed,  perhaps  a  crime.  Good 
people  in  his  opinion  were  those  who  knew  well  how 
to  hide  their  actions  and  thoughts;  but  if  one  were 
to  embrace  them,  to  set  them  at  ease  with  caresses  and 
to  closely  question  them,  he  felt  sure  evil  and  false 
hood  would  ooze  from  them  like  poison  from  a  sup 
purating  wound.  He  readily  agreed  that  he  too  was 
wont  to  lie  now  and  then,  but  affirmed  with  an  oath 
that  others  lied  even  more,  and  that  if  there  was  one 
person  in  the  world  foully  imposed  upon  and  ill-used  that 
person  was  Judas.  Many  people  had  deceived  him,  and 
more  than  once  and  in  divers  ways.  Thus  a  certain 
steward  who  had  charge  of  a  nobleman's  treasure  had 
confessed  to  Judas  that  for  ten  years  he  had  coveted 
the  possession  of  the  treasure  entrusted  to  him,  but 
feared  his  master  and  his  conscience.  And  Judas  be 
lieved  him,  but  lo!  suddenly  he  stole  the  treasure  and 
deceived  Judas.  And  again  Judas  believed  him,  but  he 
as  unexpectedly  returned  the  stolen  goods  to  his  mas 
ter — and  again  deceived  Judas.  And  everybody  was 
deceiving  him — even  the  animals.  If  he  petted  a  dog, 
it  would  snap  at  his  fingers;  if  he  beat  it  with  a  rod 


56  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

it  licked  his  hand  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with  a 
filial  expression.  He  killed  such  a  dog  once,  buried  the 
animal  deep  in  the  ground  and  lay  a  heavy  stone  on  the 
burial  spot,  but  who  knows?  perhaps  because  he  had 
killed  it,  it  became  endowed  with  a  more  abundant  life 
and  was  no  longer  resting  in  its  grave  but  merrily  run 
ning  about  with  other  dogs. 

Every  one  laughed  at  Judas'  tales,  and  he  himself 
smiled  pleasantly,  winking  his  live  and  mocking  eye,  and 
smilingly  confessed  again  that  he  had  lied  a  little:  that 
he  had  never  killed  such  a  dog,  but  promised  to  find  it 
and  surely  kill  it,  for  he  hated  to  be  deceived.  And 
they  laughed  still  more  at  such  words. 

But  sometimes  in  his  tales  he  exceeded  the  limits  of 
probability  and  verisimilitude  and  ascribed  to  people 
tendencies  such  as  are  foreign  even  to  beasts  and  ac 
cused  them  of  simply  incredible  crimes.  And  as  he 
mentioned  in  such  connection  names  of  the  most  re 
spected  people,  some  were  indignant  at  the  slander, 
while  others  jestingly  inquired: 

"But  thy  father  and  mother,  Judas,  were  they  not 
good  people?" 

Judas  winked  his  eye,  smiled  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  And  as  he  shook  his  head  his  congealed 
wide  open  eye  shook  in  its  orbit  and  gazed  dumbly: 

"And  who  was  my  father?  Perhaps  the  man  who 
chastised  me  when  I  was  a  child,  perhaps  the  devil,  or 
a  goat  or  a  rooster.  Can  Judas  know  with  whom  his 
mother  shared  her  couch?  Judas  has  many  fathers.  Of 
whom  speak  you?" 

But  at  this  the  ire  of  all  was  aroused,  for  they  great 
ly  honored  their  parents,  and  Matthew,  thoroughly  ver 
sed  in  the  Scriptures,  sternly  repeated  the  words  of 
Solomon : 


JUDAS  ISC  A  RIOT  57 

"He  who  speaks  ill  of  his  father  and  his  mother, 
his  lamp  will  be  extinguished  in  utter  darkness." 

And  John  of  Zebedee  inquired  contemptuously: 

"And  how  about  us?  What  evil  wilt  thou  say  about 
us,  Judas  of  Kerioth?" 

But  he,  with  pretended  fear,  threw  up  his  hands, 
cringing  and  whining  like  a  beggar  vainly  praying  alms 
from  a  passer-by: 

"Ah!  Wouldst  thou  tempt  poor  Judas?  Mock  poor 
Judas,  deceive  poor  guileless  Judas?" 

While  one  side  of  his  face  was  distorted  in  apish 
grimaces,  the  other  seemed  serious  and  stern  and  the 
neverclosed  eye  peered  mutely  and  vaguely  into  space. 
Above  all  others,  and  most  loudly,  Simon  Peter  was 
wont  to  laugh  at  his  jests.  But  once  it  happened  that 
with  a  sudden  frown  he  paused  and  hastily  took  Judas 
aside,  almost  dragging  him  by  his  sleeve: 

"And  Jesus?  What  thinkest  thou  of  Jesus?"  he  in 
quired  in  a  loud  whisper  bending  over  him.  "But  no 
jesting  now,  I  pray  thee." 

Judas  looked  up  with  hatred: 

"And  what  thinkest  thou?" 

"I  think  that  He  is  the  Son  of  the  living  God." 

"Then  why  askest  thou?  What  could  Judas  say 
whose  father  is  a  goat?" 

"But  dost  thou  love  Him?  It  seems  that  thou 
lovest  no  one." 

And  with  the  same  odd  malice-reeking  manner  the 
Iscariot  snapped  out: 

"I  do." 

After  this  conversation  Peter  for  a  day  or  two  loud 
ly  referred  to  Judas  as  his  friend  the  octopus,  while 
the  other  clumsily  and  wrathfully  sought  to  escape  from 
him  into  some  obscure  nook  where  he  would  sit  and  sulk, 


58  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

while  his  white  neverclosed  eye  gleamed  ominously  in 
the  dark. 

Thomas  alone  regarded  Judas'  tales  with  seriousness. 
He  was  incapable  of  understanding  jests,  pretensions 
and  lies,  plays  of  words  and  of  thoughts,  and  in  every 
thing  sought  the  substantial  and  positive.  All  stories  of 
Judas  concerning  evil  people  and  their  deeds  he  inter 
rupted  with  brief  business-like  questions: 

"Can  you  prove  it?  Who  heard  this?  And  who  else 
was  present?  What  was  his  name?" 

Judas  shrilly  protested  that  he  himself  had  heard 
and  seen  it  all,  but  the  obstinate  Thomas  persisted  in 
questioning  him  calmly  and  methodically  until  Judas 
confessed  that  he  had  lied  or  until  he  invented  a  more 
plausible  falsehood  over  which  Thomas  would  pore  for 
some  time.  Then  discovering  the  deception  he  immedi 
ately  returned  and  quietly  exposed  the  liar.  Judas  on 
the  whole  aroused  in  him  an  intense  curiosity,  which 
brought  about  a  queer  sort  of  a  friendship  between 
them,  noisy,  full  of  laughter  and  vituperation  on  the  one 
hand,  and  characterized  by  calm  and  insistent  inquisi- 
tiveness  on  the  other.  At  times  Judas  felt  an  irresistible 
contempt  for  his  unimaginative  friend  and  piercing  him 
with  a  poignant  glance  he  would  inquire  with  irritation 
and  almost  pleadingly: 

"What  else  dost  thou  want?  I  have  told  thee  all, 
all." 

"I  want  thee  to  explain  to  me  how  a  goat  could  be 
thy  father,"  insisted  Thomas  phlegmatically  and  waited 
for  an  answer.  Once  after  listening  to  such  a  query 
Judas  relapsed  into  silence  and  scanned  the  inquirer 
from  head  to  foot  in  amazement.  He  saw  a  man  of  erect 
and  lanky  stature,  of  grey  countenance,  transparently 
clear  straightforward  eyes,  two  massive  folds  starting 


JUDAS   ISCAR10T  59 

at  the  nose  and  losing  themselves  in  the  evenly  trimmed 
rough  beard,  and  observed  with  conviction : 

"How  stupid  thou  art  Thomas !  What  seest  thou 
in  thy  dreams?  A  tree,  a  wall,  an  ass?" 

And  Thomas  blushed  in  confusion,  finding  no  an 
swer.  But  just  as  Judas'  living  and  unsteady  eye  was 
about  to  close  in  sleep,  he  suddenly  exclaimed  (they 
both  now  slept  on  the  roof)  : 

"Thou  art  wrong,  Judas.  I  do  see  evil  dreams 
sometimes.  How  sayest  thou,  is  a  man  responsible 
for  his  dreams?" 

"And  who  else  sees  them  but  the  man  himself?" 

Thomas  softly  sighed  and  lapsed  into  musing. 
Judas  smiled  contemptuously,  tightly  shutting  his  thiev 
ish  eyes  and  calmly  yielded  himself  up  to  his  rebellious 
dreams,  monstrous  visions,  and  mad  imaginings  which 
rent  to  pieces  his  illshaped  skull. 


When  in  the  wanderings  of  Jesus  through  Judea  the 
pilgrims  approached  a  village,  the  Iscariot  was  in  the 
habit  of  relating  evil  things  concerning  the  inhabitants 
thereof  and  predicting  calamities.  But  it  generally  hap 
pened  that  the  people  whom  he  denounced  met  Christ 
and  His  friends  joyously,  surrounded  them  with  atten 
tions,  and  the  treasure  chest  of  Judas  grew  so  heavy  thai 
he  could  hardly  carry  it. 

And  when  he  was  twitted  with  his  mistake  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  in  resignation  and  said: 

"Yes,  yes.  Judas  thought  they  were  wicked  and 
they  are  good.  They  believed  quickly  and  gave  us  mo 
ney.  And  again  they  deceived  Judas,  poor  trusting  Judas 
of  Kerioth." 


60  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

But  once  having  departed  from  a  village  where 
they  had  been  cordially  received  Thomas  and  Judas 
had  a  violent  dispute,  and  in  order  to  settle  it  they 
chanced  to  turn  back.  A  day  later  they  caught  up  with 
Jesus  and  the  disciples.  Thomas  looked  confused  and 
saddened,  but  Judas  bore  himself  triumphantly,  as  if 
waiting  for  the  others  to  come  and  congratulate  him. 
Coming  near  the  Teacher,  Thomas  announced: 

"Judas  was  right,  Lord.  Those  were  stupid  and 
wicked  people.  Thy  seed  fell  upon  rocky  ground." 

And  then  he  related  what  had  happened.  Soon 
after  Jesus  and  His  disciples  had  gone  an  old  woman 
discovered  the  loss  of  a  kid  and  accused  the  strangers 
of  the  theft.  The  villagers  argued  with  her,  but  she  ob 
stinately  insisted  that  nobody  else  could  have  stolen  it 
but  Jesus.  Many  believed  her  and  talked  of  pursuing 
the  strangers.  But  soon  the  kid  was  found  (it  had 
become  entangled  in  the  bushes).  The  villagers,  how 
ever,  decided  that  Jesus  was  after  all  a  deceiver  and 
perhaps  a  thief. 

"Indeed?"  said  Peter,  distending  his  nostrils.  "Lord, 
say  the  word  and  I  shall  return  to  those  fools." 

But  Jesus,  who  had  kept  silence  all  this  time,  glanc 
ed  at  him  sternly,  and  Peter  stopped  and  hid  himself 
behind  the  backs  of  others.  And  no  one  else  spoke 
of  the  incident,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  as  if  he, 
Judas,  had  proved  to  be  in  the  wrong.  Vainly  he  strove 
to  show  himself  from  every  point  of  view,  laboring  to 
impart  to  his  twofold  predatory,  birdlike  beaked  face 
an  appearance  of  modesty.  No  one  looked  on  him,  ex 
cept  to  cast  a  casual,  very  unfriendly  and  even  con 
temptuous  glance. 

And  from  that  day  the  attitude  of  Jesus  towards  him 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  61 

strangely  changed.  Until  then  it  had  somehow  seemed 
as  though  Judas  never  spoke  directly  to  Jesus,  and  as 
though  Jesus  never  addressed  him  directly,  but  still  the 
Teacher  had  frequently  looked  at  him  with  a  kindly 
glance,  smiling  at  some  of  his  conceits,  and  if  he  missed 
him  for  any  length  of  time  he  was  wont  to  inquire: 
"And  where  is  Judas?"  But  now  he  looked  on  Judas 
without  noticing  him,  though  as  heretofore  His  glance 
sought  him  out,  and  even  more  persistently  than  for 
merly,  whenever  He  began  to  speak  to  His  disciples 
or  to  the  people — but  He  either  turned  His  back  to 
Judas  as  He  sat  down  or  cast  His  words  at  him  over 
His  shoulder  or  else  appeared  not  to  notice  him  at  all. 
And  whatever  He  said,  though  it  may  have  been  one 
thing  to-day  or  another  the  next,  though  it  were  the 
same  thing  that  Judas  himself  had  in  his  mind,  it  seemed 
is  though  He  always  spoke  against  Judas.  And  unto  all 
He  was  a  tender  and  beautiful  flower,  the  fragnant  Rose 
of  Lebanon,  but  for  Judas  He  had  only  sharp  thorns — as 
though  Judas  had  no  heart,  as  though  he  had  no  eyes  or 
nostrils,  as  though  he  were  not  better  able  than  all  others 
to  appreciate  the  beauty  of  tender  and  thornless  rose 
leaves. 

"Thomas,  lovest  thou  the  yellow  Rose  of  Lebanon 
that  has  a  swarthy  face  and  eyes  like  a  hind?"  he  once 
asked  of  his  friend  and  Thomas  indifferently  replied: 

"The  Rose?  Yes,  its  odor  is  agreeable  to  me,  but 
I  have  never  heard  that  roses  had  swarthy  faces  or 
eyes  like  hinds!" 

"How?  Dost  thou  not  even  know  that  the  many- 
armed  cactus  which  yesterday  rent  thy  garment  has  only 
one  red  flower  and  only  one  eye?" 

But  Thomas  was  ignorant  of  this  also,  though  the 
day  before  a  cactus  had  actually  gripped  a  portion  of 


62  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

his  garment  and  rent  it  into  shreds.  He  knew  nothing 
this  Thomas,  though  he  inquired  about  everything  and 
gazed  so  straightforwardly  with  his  clear  and  trans 
parent  eyes  through  which  one  could  see  as  through  a 
Phoenician  glass  the  wall  behind  him  and  the  plodding 
ass  hitched  to  it. 

Before  long  another  incident  occurred  when  Judas 
again  proved  to  have  been  correct.  In  a  certain  Judean 
village  which  he  had  severely  criticised  and  sought  to 
have  left  out  of  the  itinerary,  Christ  was  received  with 
much  hostility  and  after  He  had  preached  and  denounced 
the  hypocrites,  the  populace  was  aroused  to  a  wild  re 
monstrance  and  thought  of  stoning  Him  and  His  dis 
ciples. 

The  opponents  were  numerous  and  they  would  have 
surely  succeeded  in  carrying  out  their  design  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Judas  of  Kerioth.  Seized  with  a  mad  fear  for 
Jesus,  as  though  perceiving  already  the  drops  of  crimson 
on  His  white  robe,  Judas  blindly  and  frenziedly  cast 
himself  against  the  mob,  menacing,  screaming,  pleading, 
and  lying,  and  thus  gave  Jesus  and  His  disciples  an  op 
portunity  to  escape.  Amazingly  agile,  as  though  scurrying 
on  dozens  of  feet,  ludicrous  and  terrible  in  his  frenzied 
pleading,  he  rushed  madly  before  the  crowd  and  fas 
cinated  it  with  some  strange  spell.  He  screamed  that  the 
Nazarene  was  not  at  all  possessed  of  the  devil,  that  He 
was  a  mere  deceiver,  a  thief,  a  lover  of  money,  like  all 
cf  His  disciples,  like  he,  Judas,  himself, — he  shook  the 
money  chest  in  their  faces,  distorted  his  features  and 
pleaded  with  them  casting  himself  to  the  ground.  And 
gradually  the  wrath  of  the  mob  turned  into  laughter 
and  disgust  and  the  arms  that  had  held  the  stones  sank 
to  their  sides. 

"Unworthy,  unworthy  they  are  to  die  of  an  honest 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  63 

man's  hand/*  exclaimed  some,  while  others  musingly 
gazed  after  the  speedily  vanished  Judas. 

And  again  Judas  expected  congratulations,  praises, 
and  thanks,  and  made  a  show  of  his  rent  garments  and 
falsely  claimed  that  he  had  been  beaten,  but  again  he 
was  inconceivably  deceived.  Filled  with  wrath  Jesus 
walked  ahead  taking  large  steps  and  silent,  and  even 
John  and  Peter  dared  not  approach  him,  while  the  others 
coming  across  Judas,  with  his  rent  garments,  his  face 
aglow  with  excitement  and  triumph  though  still  a  little 
pale  with  recent  fright,  drove  him  away  with  curt  and 
angry  remarks.  As  if  he  had  not  saved  them,  as  if  he 
had  not  saved  their  teacher  whom  they  loved  so  much. 

"Dost  thou  wish  to  see  a  pack  of  fools?"  he  re 
marked  to  Thomas  who  musingly  plodded  by  his  side. 
"Look  how  they  walk  along  the  roadway,  like  a  herd  of 
sheep,  raising  the  dust.  And  thou,  clever  Thomas,  art 
dragging  along  behind ;  and  I,  noble  and  beautiful  Judas, 
am  also  trudging  in  the  rear  like  a  filthy  slave  not  fit 
to  walk  by  the  side  of  his  master." 

"Why  callest  thou  thyself  beautiful?"  inquired  the 
surprised  Thomas. 

"Because  I  am  handsome,"  replied  Judas  with  con 
viction  and  began  to  relate  to  him,  with  many  additions, 
how  he  had  deceived  the  enemies  of  Jesus  and  laughed 
at  them  and  their  stones." 

"But  thou  didst  lie !"  remarked  Thomas. 

"Of  course  I  lied,"  agreed  the  Iscariot  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone.  I  gave  them  what  they  asked  and  they 
returned  to  me  what  I  needed.  And  what  is  a  lie,  my 
clever  Thomas?  Would  not  the  death  of  Jesus  have  been 
the  greater  lie?" 

"Thou  didst  wrong.  Now  I  know  that  thy  father 
was  the  devil.  He  taught  thee  this,  Judas." 


64  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

The  Iscariot's  cheek  blanched  and  seemed  to  over 
shadow  Thomas,  as  though  a  white  cloud  had  descended 
and  hidden  the  roadway  and  Jesus.  With  a  lithe  move 
ment  Judas  suddenly  seized  Thomas  and  pressed  him  to 
himself  with  a  grip  so  tight  that  he  could  not  move  and 
whispered  into  his  ear: 

"Good.  The  devil  taught  me?  Good,  Thomas,  good. 
And  I  saved  Jesus,  didn't  I  ?  Then  the  devil  loves  Jesus, 
then  the  devil  needs  Jesus  and  Truth?  Good,  good 
Thomas.  But  my  father  was  not  the  devil,  he  was  a 
goat.  Mayhap  the  goat  needs  Jesus?  Hey?  And  you, 
do  you  not  want  Him?  Do  you  not  want  the  Truth?" 

Angered  and  slightly  frightened  Thomas  with  an 
effort  released  himself  from  Judas'  slimy  embrace  and 
walked  ahead  swiftly,  but  soon  slowed  down  in  order 
to  ponder  over  what  had  just  happened. 

But  Judas  plodded  on  quietly  in  the  rear,  falling 
back  little  by  little.  The  wanderers  had  merged  into 
one  motley  group  in  the  distance  and  it  was  impossible 
to  tell  accurately  which  of  the  little  figures  was  Jesus. 
Now  even  the  tiny  figure  of  Thomas  changed  into  a  grey 
dot,  and  suddenly  they  were  all  lost  to  sight  behind  a 
turn  in  the  road;  glancing  around  Judas  turned  aside 
from  the  roadway  and  with  mighty  leaps  descended  into 
the  depths  of  a  rocky  ravine.  His  robe  inflated  from 
his  swift  and  impetuous  flight  and  his  arms  stretched 
upward  as  though  he  soared  on  wings.  There  on  a  steep 
decline  he  slipped  and  rapidly  rolled  down  in  a  grey  heap, 
his  flesh  torn  by  the  shaggy  rock,  and  leaped  again  to 
his  feet  angrily  shaking  his  fist  at  the  mountain. 

"You  too,  curse  you!" 

And  suddenly  forsaking  his  swiftness  of  movement 
for  a  sullen  and  concentrated  deliberateness  he  chose  a 
spot  near  a  large  rock  and  slowly  seated  himself.  He 


JUDAS   ISC  A  RIOT  65 

turned  around  as  if  in  search  of  a  comfortable  position, 
pressed  the  palms  of  his  hands  close  together  against 
the  grey  rock  and  heavily  leaned  his  head  upon  them. 
Thus  he  sat  for  an  hour  or  two  without  stirring,  de 
ceiving  the  birds,  motionless  and  grey  like  the  rock 
itself.  Before  him,  behind  him  and  around  him  rose 
the  steep  sides  of  the  ravine  cutting  with  their  sharp 
outline  into  the  azure  sky;  and  everywhere  rose  im 
mense  stones,  rooted  into  the  ground,  as  if  there  had 
passed  over  the  place  a  shower  of  rocks  and  its  heavy 
drops  had  grown  transfixed  in  neverending  thought.  The 
wild  and  deserted  ravine  resembled  an  overturned  de 
capitated  skull  and  each  rock  therein  seemed  a  con 
gealed  thought,  and  there  were  many  of  them,  and  they 
all  were  brooding  heavy,  limitless,  stubborn  thoughts. 

There  a  deceived  scorpion  hobbled  amicably  past 
Judas  on  his  rickety  legs;  Judas  glanced  at  him  with 
out  lifting  his  head  from  the  stone,  and  again  his  eyes 
stopped  rigidly  fixed  on  some  object,  both  motionless, 
both  covered  \vith  an  odd  and  whitish  film,  both  seem 
ingly  blind  and  dreadfully  seeing.  Then  from  the  ground, 
from  the  rocks,  from  the  crevices  began  to  rise  the  calm 
gloom  of  night;  it  enshrouded  the  motionless  Judas  and 
swiftly  crept  upwards  to  the  luminously  pallid  sky.  The 
night  was  advancing  with  its  thoughts  and  dreams. 

That  night  Judas  failed  to  return  to  the  lodging,  and 
the  disciples  torn  from  their  thoughts  by  cares  for  food 
and  drink  murmured  at  his  negligence. 

CHAPTER  III. 

Once  about  noon  time,  Jesus  and  his  disciples  were 
ascending  a  rocky  and  mountainous  path  barren  of 
shade,  and  as  they  had  been  over  five  hours  on  the  road 


66  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

Jesus  commenced  to  complain  of  weariness.  The  dis 
ciples  stopped  and  Peter  with  his  friend  John  spread 
their  mantles  and  those  of  other  disciples  on  the  ground 
and  fastened  them  overhead  on  two  protruding  rocks 
and  thus  prepared  a  sort  of  a  tent  for  Jesus.  And  he 
reclined  in  that  tent,  resting  from  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
while  they  sought  to  divert  Him  with  merry  talk  and 
jests.  But  seeing  that  speech  wearied  Him  they  with 
drew  a  short  distance  and  engaged  in  various  occupa 
tions,  being  themselves  but  little  sensitive  to  heat  and 
fatigue.  Some  searched  the  mountainside  for  edible  roots 
among  the  rocks,  and  brought  them  to  Jesus,  others  as 
cended  higher  and  higher.  John  had  found  a  pretty  blue 
lizard  among  the  stones  and  bore  it  tenderly  to  Jesus, 
with  a  gentle  smile ;  the  lizard  gazed  with  its  protruding 
mysterious  eyes  into  His  eyes  and  then  swiftly  glided 
with  its  cold  little  body  over  His  warm  hand  and  rapidly 
bore  away  somewhere  its  tender  and  trembling  tail. 

Peter,  caring  little  for  such  diversions,  amused  him 
self  in  company  with  Philip  by  detaching  large  stones 
from  the  mountainside  and  rolling  them  down  in  a  con 
test  of  strength.  Attracted  by  their  loud  laughter,  little 
by  little  the  others  gathered  around  them  and  took  part 
in  the  game.  Straining  every  muscle  each  tore  from  the 
glen  a  hoary  moss-covered  stone,  lifted  it  high  over 
head  with  both  arms  and  dropped  it  down  the  incline. 
It  struck  heavily  with  a  short,  blunt  contact  and  seemed 
to  stop  for  an  instant,  as  if  in  thought,  then  irresolutely 
it  took  the  first  leap,  and  each  time  it  touched  the  earth 
it  gathered  from  it  speed  and  strength,  grew  light, 
ferocious,  all-crushing.  Then  it  leaped  no  longer,  but 
flew  with  flashing  teeth,  and  the  air  with  a  whizzing 
noise  made  way  for  the  compact  rotund  missile.  Now  it 
reached  the  edge  of  the  ravine;  with  a  smooth  final 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  67 

movement  the  stone  flew  up  a  little  distance  into  the 
air,  and  rolled  below,  clumsy,  heavy  and  circular,  towards 
the  bottom  of  the  invisible  abyss. 

"Now  then  one  more!"  cried  Peter.  His  white 
teeth  glistened  through  his  black  beard  and  mustache, 
his  powerful  breast  and  arms  were  bared  and  the  old 
angry  stones,  dully  wondering  at  the  strength  that  cast 
them,  one  after  the  other  submissively  passed  into  the 
abyss.  Even  frail  John  threw  little  pebbles,  and  Jesus 
smiling  gently  watched  their  game.  "Well,  Judas,  why 
dost  thou  not  take  part  in  the  game,  it  is  apparently 
so  diverting?"  asked  Thomas  having  found  his  queer 
friend  motionless  behind  a  large  grey  rock. 

"My  breast  pains  and  they  have  not  called  me." 
"Is  there  any  need  to  call  thee?  Well,  I  call  thee. 
Come.     Look  how  large  are  the  stones  that  Peter  is 
casting  down." 

Judas  glanced  sideways  at  him  and  for  the  first 
time  Thomas  dimly  realized  that  Judas  of  Kerioth  had 
two  faces.  But  hardly  had  he  grasped  the  idea  when 
Judas  remarked  in  his  wonted  tone,  ingratiating  and  at 
the  same  time  sneering: 

"Is  there  any  one  stronger  than  Peter?  When  he 
shouts  all  the  asses  in  Jerusalem  think  their  Messias  has 
come  and  respond.  Hast  thou  ever  heard  their  bray- 
ing?" 

Smiling  amicably  and  bashfully  covering  his  breast 
that  was  covered  with  curly  red  hair  Judas  entered  the 
circle  of  the  players.  And  as  they  all  felt  merry  they 
received  him  with  glad  shouts  and  hilarious  jests  and 
even  John  indulgently  smiled  when  Judas,  groaning  and 
simulating  great  strain  detached  an  immense  stone.  But 
now  he  easily  raised  it  and  cast  it  down.  His  blind  wide- 
open  eye  shifted  and  fixed  itself  rigidly  on  Peter,  while 


68  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

the  other,  cunning  and  happy  twinkled  with  suppressed 
merriment. 

"Well,  you  throw  another  one/'  broke  in  Peter  in 
an  offended  tone. 

And  then  one  after  another  they  raised  and  dropped 
gigantic  stones,  and  in  surprise  the  disciples  watched 
them.  Peter  would  throw  a  large  stone,  but  Judas  a 
still  larger  one.  Peter,  with  a  frown,  wrathfully  turned  a 
fragment  of  the  rock  and  reeling  raised  it  and  dropped 
it  into  the  depths.  Judas,  still  smiling,  searched  with  a 
glance  for  a  still  larger  fragment,  caressingly  dug  into 
it  with  his  lean  long  fingers,  clung  to  it,  swayed  with 
it  and  with  blanching  cheek  sent  it  down  into  the  abyss. 
Having  dropped  his  stone,  Peter  fell  back  and  thus 
watched  its  flight,  while  Judas  bent  forward,  leaned  over 
the -abyss  and  spread  out  his  long  and  creepy  arms  as 
though  he  meant  to  fly  after  the  stone.  Finally  both  of 
them,  first  Peter  and  then  Judas,  seized  a  grey  stone  and 
were  unable  to  raise  it,  neither  one  nor  the  other.  Flush 
ed  with  his  effort  Peter  resolutely  approached  Jesus 
and  loudly  exclaimed: 

"Lord,  I  do  not  want  Judas  to  be  stronger  than  I. 
Help  me  to  raise  that  stone  and  cast  it  down." 

And  Jesus  softly  made  some  reply.  Peter  dissatisfied 
shrugged  his  broad  shoulders,  but  dared  no  rejoinder 
raid  returned  with  the  following  words: 

"He  said:  'And  who  shall  help  the  Iscariot?'" 

But  glancing  at  Judas,  who  with  bated  breath  and 
tightly  clenched  teeth  still  clung  to  the  stubborn  stone, 
Peter  burst  out  in  a  laugh: 

"Look  at  the  sick  man!  Look  at  our  poor  ailing 
Judas." 

And  Judas  himself  laughed,  being  so  unexpectedly 
exposed  in  a  lie,  and  the  others  laughed  also ;  even 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  69 

Thomas  suffered  a  smile  to  slip  past  his  straight,  shaggy 
mustache. 

With  merry  and  friendly  speech  they  started  again 
on  their  way,  and  Peter,  having  made  full  peace  with 
the  victor,  now  and  again  nudged  his  ribs  with  his 
fists  and  laughed  loudly. 

"The  sick  man !" 

Everyone  praised  Judas,  everyone  acknowledged 
him  victor,  everyone  conversed  with  him  cordially,  but 
Jesus — Jesus  even  this  time  failed  to  praise  Judas.  Sil 
ently  He  walked  on  ahead,  gnawing  at  a  blade  of  grass, 
and  little  by  little  the  cisciples  ceased  their  laughter 
and  joined  Jesus.  Soon  it  happened  that  they  walked 
all  in  one  group  ahead,  but  Judas,  the  victor  Judas,  the 
strong  Judas,  trudged  along  in  the  rear  swallowing  dxist. 

They  paused,  and  Jesus  laying  one  hand  on  Peter's 
shoulder  pointed  with  the  other  into  the  distance,  where 
already  in  the  mist  had  appeared  Jerusalem;  and  the 
big  broad  back  of  Peter  carefully  couched  His  fine  sun 
burnt  hand. 

For  the  night's  lodging  they  stopped  in  Bethany, 
in  the  house  of  Lazarus.  And  when  they  all  gathered 
to  converse,  Judas  thought  it  a  good  time  to  recall  his 
victory  over  Peter.  The  disciples,  however,  had  little 
to  say  and  were  unusually  silent.  The  images  of  the 
journey  just  completed,  the  sun,  the  rocks,  the  grass, 
Christ  reposing  in  the  tent,  floated  softly  through  their 
minds,  exhaling  a  gentle  pensiveness,  generating  dimly 
sweet  dreams  of  some  eternal  motion  under  the  sun. 
The  wearied  body  rested  sweetly,  musing  of  something 
mysteriously  beautiful  and  great — and  not  one  remem 
bered  Judas. 

Judas  went  out.  Then  he  returned.  Jesus  was  speak- 


70  JUDAS  1SCARIOT 

ing  and  his  disciples  listened  in  silence.  Motionless  as 
a  statue,  Mary  sat  at  His  feet  and  with  head  thrown 
back  gazed  into  His  face.  John  had  come  close  to  the 
Teacher  and  strove  to  touch  the  hem  of  His  garment 
with  his  hand,  but  so  as  not  to  disturb  him.  And  hav 
ing  touched  it  he  sat  breathlessly  still.  And  Peter 
breathed  hard  and  loud,  echoing  the  words  of  Jesus 
with  his  breath. 

The  Iscariot  stopped  at  the  threshold  and  con 
temptuously  passed  his  glance  over  those  assembled, 
concentrating  its  flames  upon  Jesus.  And  as  he  gazed, 
all  around  him  grew  dim  and  was  lost  in  gloom  and 
silence;  Jesus  only,  with  uplifted  hand,  was  radiant. 
But  now  He  too  seemed  to  rise  in  the  air,  seemed  to 
melt  and  His  substance  seemed  to  change  into  luminous 
mist  such  as  hangs  over  the  lake  when  the  moon  goes 
down ;  and  His  soft-spoken  words  sounded  somewhere 
afar  off  and  gentle.  And  gazing  deeper  into  this  wavering 
vision,  drinking  in  with  his  ears  the  tender  melody  of 
those  distant  and  spectral  words,  Judas  gripped  his 
whole  soul  with  claws  of  iron  and  silently  in  its  un 
fathomable  gloom  commenced  to  rear  something  stu 
pendous.  Slowly  in  the  dense  darkness,  he  raised  im 
mense  mountainous  masses,  piling  them  up  one  upon 
another,  and  raised  others  and  piled  them  up  again; 
and  something  was  growing  in  the  darkness,  expanding 
voicelessly,  spreading  its  outlines.  Now  he  felt  his 
head  transformed  into  a  vast  dome,  and  in  its  impen 
etrable  gloom  there  grew  and  grew  something  stupend 
ous,  and  someone  wrought  therein,  raising  mountain- 
like  masses,  piling  them  up  one  upon  another  and  rais 
ing  up  new  ones...  And  gently  there  sounded  somewhere 
distant  and  spectral  words. 

Thus  he  stood,  blocking  the  doorway,  towering  tall 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  71 

and  dark,  while  Jesus  spoke,  and  Peter's  loud  breath 
ing  same  in  unison  with  His  words.  But  suddenly  Jesus 
ceased — with  an  abruptly  incomplete  sound,  and  Peter, 
like  one  awakened  out  of  a  trance,  triumphantly  ex 
claimed  : 

"Lord,  Thou  knowest  the  words  of  Eternal  Life!" 

But  Jesus  was  gazing  somewhere  in  silence.  And 
when  they  followed  his  glance  they  saw  Judas  in  the 
doorway  rigid,  open-mouthed  and  wTith  staring  eyes.  And 
not  knowing  what  it  was  about,  they  laughed.  But 
Matthew,  learned  in  the  Scriptures,  touched  Judas' 
shoulder  and  remarked  in  Solomon's  words: 

"He  who  has  a  gentle  look  will  be  shown  mercy, 
but  he  who  is  met  in  the  gate  will  oppress  others/' 

Judas  shuddered  and  even  uttered  a  faint  hoarse 
cry  of  fear,  and  all  of  his  body — eyes,  arms  and  legs 
seemed  to  flee  in  different  directions.  So  a  beast  might 
look  when  suddenly  facing  the  eyes  of  man.  Jesus 
walked  straight  against  Judas,  seemingly  bearing  some 
word  on  His  lips,  and  he  walked  past  Judas  through  the 
door  which  was  now  open  and  free. 

*     *     * 

Long  after  midnight  Thomas,  becoming  worried, 
approached  Judas'  sleeping  place  and  bending  over  him 
inquired : 

"Thou  weepest,  Judas?" 

"No,  go  away,  Thomas." 

"Then  why  groanest  thou  and  gnashest  thy  teeth? 

Art  thou  ill?" 

Judas  was  silent  for  a  space  of  time,  and  then  from 
his  lips  poured  forth  one  after  another  heavy  words, 
throbbing  with  yearning  and  wrath. 

"Why  does  He  not  love  me?  Why  does  He  love 


72  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

them?  Am  I  not  more  beautiful,  am  I  not  better,  am  I 
not  stronger  than  they?  Did  I  not  save  His  life  while  the 
others  were  running  away  cringing  like  cowardly  curs?" 

"My  poor  friend,  thou  art  not  entirely  in  the  right. 
Thou  are  not  at  all  beautiful  and  thy  tongue  is  as  dis 
agreeable  as  thy  face.  Thou  art  forever  lying  and  speak 
ing  ill  of  others.  How  dost  thou  expect  that  Jesus  should 
love  thee?" 

But  Judas  heard  him  not  and  continued:  "Why  is 
He  with  those  who  do  not  love  Him,  instead  of  with 
Judas?  John  brought  Him  a  lizard,  I  would  have 
brought  Him  a  venomous  snake.  Peter  cast  stones,  I 
would  have  turned  the  mountain  around  for  Him.  But 
what  is  a  snake?  Draw  its  tooth  and  it  will  cling  about 
thy  neck  like  a  necklace.  What  is  a  mountain  which 
one  can  dig  with  his  hands  and  trample  under  foot? 
I  would  have  given  Him  Judas,  daring,  beautiful  Judas. 
But  now  He  will  perish  and  Judas  will  perish  with  Him. 

"Thou  sayest  strange  things,  Judas." 

"The  withered  fig  tree  which  is  to  be  hewn  down! 
Why,  that  is  I,  He  said  it  of  me!  Why  does  He  not 
hew?  He  dare  not,  Thomas.  I  know  Him.  He  fears 
Judas !  He  hides  before  the  daring,  the  beautiful  Judas ! 
He  loves  the  fools,  the  traitors,  the  liars !  Thou  art  a  liar, 
Thomas,  hast  thou  heard  me?" 

Thomas  was  greatly  surprised,  and  thought  of  pro 
testing,  but  he  decided  that  Judas  was  merely  brawling, 
and  contented  himself  by  shaking  his  head.  But  Judas' 
agony  increased:  he  moaned,  gnashed  his  teeth,  and  one 
could  hear  his  huge  body  shifting  restlessly  under  the 
blanket. 

"What  is  it  that  pains  Judas  so?  Who  has  set  fire 
to  his  body?  He  gives  his  son  unto  the  dogs,  he  yields 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  73 

his  daughter  into  the  hands  of  robbers  for  defilement. 
But  is  not  the  heart  of  Judas  tender?  Go  away,  Thomas, 
po  away,  thou  fool.  Leave  Judas  alone,  strong,  daring, 
beautiful  Judas." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Judas  purloined  a  few  pieces  of  silver  and  the  theft 
was  discovered  by  Thomas  who  had  chanced  to  note 
the  exact  sum  of  money  given  him.  It  was  thought 
likely  that  he  had  stolen  on  previous  occasions,  and  the 
indignation  of  the  disciples  knew  no  bounds.  Bristling 
with  wrath  Peter  seized  Judas  by  the  neck  and  half 
dragged  him  to  Jesus.  The  pale  and  frightened  culprit 
offered  no  resistance. 

"Teacher,  look.  Our  jester!  Just  look  at  him,  the 
thief.  Thou  trustest  him,  but  he  steals  our  money.  The 
rogue !  If  thou  wilt  but  say  the  word,  I  shall...." 

But  Jesus  was  silent.  Peter  looked  up  curiously 
scanning  the  Teacher's  expression,  and  with  flushed  face 
relaxed  his  hold  on  Judas.  The  latter  smoothed  his 
garments  with  a  sheepish  mien  and  assumed  the  down 
cast  appearance  of  a  penitent  sinner. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that!"  growled  Peter,  and 
walked  out  of  the  room  banging  the  door.  Everybody 
was  annoyed,  and  the  disciples  declared  that  on  no  ac 
count  would  they  remain  together  with  Judas.  John, 
however,  with  a  sudden  inspiration  quietly  slipped  into 
the  room  whence  through  the  open  doorway  was  now 
heard  the  gentle  and  apparently  cordial  voice  of  Jesus. 

When  John  returned,  his  face  was  pale  and  his  eyes 
were  red  with  recent  tears. 

"The  Teacher  says...  The  Teacher  says  that  Judas 
may  take  all  the  money  he  likes." 


74  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

Peter  laughed  angrily.  Swiftly  and  reproachfully 
John  glanced  at  the  impetuous  disciple,  and  suddenly, 
all  aglow,  his  tears  mingling  with  his  wrath,  his  joy 
mingling  with  his  tears,  he  exclaimed  with  a  ringing 
voice : 

"And  none  shall  keep  count  of  the  money  which 
Judas  receives.  He  is  our  brother  and  all  the  money  is 
his  as  well  as  ours,  and  if  he  needs  much  let  him  take 
much,  telling  no  one  nor  taking  counsel  with  any.  Judas 
is  our  brother  and  you  have  deeply  offended  against 
him/'  thus  sayeth  our  Teacher.  Shame  on  us,  brethren !" 

In  the  doorway  stood  Judas,  pale  and  with  a  sickly 
smile.  John  with  a  quick  movement  approached  him  and 
kissed  him  thrice  on  the  cheek.  And  after  him,  ex 
changing  glances  and  awkwardly,  came  the  others, 
James,  Philip,  and  the  rest.  After  each  kiss  Judas  wiped 
his  mouth,  though  he  received  the  kiss  with  a  resound 
ing  smack  as  if  the  sound  afforded  him  much  pleasure. 
The  last  to  kiss  him  was  Peter. 

"We  are  all  fools,  Judas.  We  are  all  blind.  One 
alone  is  seeing,  One  alone  is  wise.  May  I  kiss  thee?" 

"Why  not?  Kiss,"  assented  Judas. 

Peter  cordially  kissed  him  and  whispered  into  his 
ear: 

"And  I  almost  choked  thee.  The  others  were  gentler, 
but  I  seized  thee  by  the  throat.  Did  it  pain  thee?" 

"A  little." 

"I  shall  go  to  Him  and  tell  Him.  I  was  even  angry 
with  Him/'  gloomily  remarked  Peter  striving  to  open 
the  door  without  noise. 

"And  how  about  thee,  Thomas?"  sternly  inquired 
John  who  was  watching  the  actions  of  the  disciples. 

"I  don't  know  yet.     I  must  think." 

And  Thomas  thought  long,  almost  the  whole  day. 


JUDAS  ISCAR10T  75 

The  disciples  had  gone  about  their  business,  and  some 
where  behind  the  wall  Peter  shouted  loudly  and  merrily, 
but  Thomas  was  still  thinking.  He  would  have  finished 
sooner,  but  Judas,  whose  mocking  glance  persistently 
pursued  his  movement,  disturbed  him.  Now  and  then 
the  Iscariot  inquired  with  a  mock  curiosity: 

"Well,  how  is  it  Thomas?  How  art  thou  progress 
ing?" 

Then  Judas  brought  his  treasure  chest  and  loudly 
jingling  his  coins  he  commenced  to  count  them,  pre 
tending  to  ignore  the  presence  of  Thomas. 

"...Twenty  one,  twenty  two,  twenty  three.  Look, 
Thomas,  another  false  coin.  What  great  rogues  people 
are,  they  even  offer  false  money  unto  God.  Twenty 
four.  And  then  they  will  say  Judas  had  stolen  it.  Twen 
ty  five.  Twenty  six.." 

Thomas  resolutely  advanced  to  him,  (it  was  already 
towards  evening)  and  said: 

"He  was  right,  Judas.     Let  me  kiss  thee." 

"Indeed?  Twenty  nine.  Thirty.  But  it  is  all  in 
vain.  I  shall  steal  again.  Thirty  one.." 

"How  canst  thou  steal  if  there  is  no  more  thine  or 
anybody  else's?  Thou  wilt  take  what  thou  needest, 
brother." 

"And  didst  thou  require  all  this  time  merely  to 
repeat  His  words?  Thou  doest  not  value  time,  Thomas?" 

"I    fear   thou    mockest   me,   brother." 

"And  think,  dost  thou  act  correctly  in  repeating  His 
words?  It  was  He  who  had  spoken,  and  they  were  His 
words,  not  thine.  It  was  He  who  had  kissed  me,  but 
you  defiled  my  mouth.  I  can  still  feel  your  moist  lips 
creeping  over  my  face.  How  disgusting  that  was, 
Thomas!  Thirty  eight.  Thirty  nine.  Forty  pieces  of 
silver.  Dost  thou  want  to  count  it  over?" 


76  JUDAS  1SCARIOT 

"But  He  is  our  Teacher.  How  should  we  not  repeat 
His  words?" 

"Has  Judas  no  longer  a  neck  to  drag  him  by?  Is  he 
now  naked  so  that  ye  cannot  seize  him?  The  Teacher 
will  leave  the  house,  Judas  may  accidently  steal  three 
coins,  and  will  ye  not  again  seize  him  by  the  neck?" 

"We  know  now,  Judas.     We  understand." 

"But  have  not  all  disciples  a  poor  memory?  And 
do  not  the  disciples  deceive  their  teachers?  The  Teacher 
'ifts  the  rod,  the  disciples  cry :  'We  know  the  lesson !' 
The  teacher  lies  down  to  sleep  and  the  disciples  inquire : 
'Is  not  this  what  our  teacher  taught  us?'  And  here  this 
morning  thou  didst  call  me  thief,  but  now  callest  thou 
me  brother.  What  wilt  thou  call  me  on  the  morrow?" 

Judas  laughed,  and  picking  up  with  one  arm  the 
heavy  and  jingling  money  chest  he  continued: 

"When  the  wind  blows  strongly  it  raises  the  dust 
and  the  stupid  people  see  the  dust  and  say:  'Behold, 
the  wind  bloweth.'  But  it  is  only  dust,  my  good  Thomas, 
the  refuse  of  asses,  trodden  under  foot.  There  it  strikes 
a  wall  and  is  now  humbly  lying  at  its  foot,  but  the  wind 
is  flying  further,  the  wind  is  flying  further,  my  good 
Thomas." 

Judas  pointed  in  illustration  over  the  wall  and 
laughed  again : 

"I  am  glad  that  thou  art  merry,  Judas,"  replied 
Thomas.  "Pity  it  is  that  in  thy  merriment  there  is  so 
much  malice." 

"How  should  not  a  man  be  merry  who  has  been 
kissed  so  much  and  who  is  so  useful?  If  I  had  not  stolen 
three  pieces  of  silver,  how  should  John  have  known  the 
exaltation  of  joy?  Is  it  not  pleasurable  to  be  a  hook 
whereupon  John  hangs  his  mouldy  virtue  to  dry  and 
thou  thy  motheaten  wisdom?" 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  77 

"I  think  it  is  best  for  me  to  go." 

"But  I  am  merely  joking.  I  am  jesting,  Thomas. 
I  merely  wished  to  know  if  thou  didst  really  long  to  kiss 
the  old  and  repulsive  Judas  who  had  stolen  three  pieces 
of  silver  and  given  the  money  to  a  sinful  woman." 

"A  sinful  woman?"  echoed  Thomas  in  surprise. 
"And  didst  thou  tell  our  Teacher  this  also?" 

"There,  doubting  again,  Thomas!  Yes,  to  a  sinful 
woman.  But  if  thou  only  knew  wrhat  a  miserable  woman 
she  was.  She  must  have  gone  without  food  two  days." 

"Knowest  that  this  circumstance  for  a  certainty?" 
inquired  Thomas  in  confusion. 

"Of  course.  I  had  been  with  her  two  days  myself 
and  saw  that  she  had  eaten  nothing,  for  she  merely 
drank  wine,  red  wine.  And  she  reeled  with  exhaustion 
and  I  fell  with  her." 

Thomas  leaped  to  his  feet  and  walking  a  short  dis 
tance  away,  turned  and  remarked  to  Judas. 

"Apparently   Satan   has   entered   thy   body." 

And  as  he  departed  he  heard  the  heavy  money  chest 
jingle  mournfully  through  the  gloom  in  the  hands  of 
Judas...  And  it  seemed  as  though  Judas  were  laughing. 

But  the  very  next  day  Thomas  had  to  admit  that 
he  had  been  mistaken  in  Judas:  so  gentle,  simple  and 
at  the  same  time  serious  had  become  the  Iscariot.  He 
cut  no  more  grimaces,  refrained  from  malicious  jesting, 
no  longer  cringed  before  people  or  insulted  them,  but  at 
tended  to  his  household  tasks  quietly  and  unobtrusively. 
He  was  as  agile  as  ever:  as  though  he  had  not  two  legs 
like  the  rest  of  the  people,  but  dozens  of  them.  Now, 
however,  he  scurried  about  noiselessly,  without  squeal 
ing  and  screaming  or  the  hyena  laugh  that  had  charac 
terized  his  previous  activity.  And  when  Jesus  now  com 
menced  to  speak  he  sat  down  in  a  corner  with  folded 


78  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

hands  and  his  large  eyes  assumed  such  a  gentle  expres 
sion  that  everybody  noticed  it.  And  he  ceased  to  speak 
evil  of  people,  keeping  silence  in  preference,  so  that  even 
the  stern  Matthew  found  it  proper  to  praise  him,  which 
he  did  in  the  words  of  Solomon :  "The  fool  speaketh 
scornfully  of  his  neighbor,  but  the  wise  man  is  silent/' 
and  he  raised  his  finger  as  if  recalling  the  former  prone- 
ress  of  Judas  to  speak  evil.  And  the  others  also  noted 
this  change  in  Judas  and  rejoiced  over  it.  Only  Jesus 
still  viewed  him  with  the  same  look  of  estrangement 
although  He  in  no  manner  expressed  His  disfavor.  And 
John  himself,  towards  whom,  as  the  beloved  disciple  of 
Jesus  and  his  protector,  Judas  now  manifested  a  most 
deferential  demeanor,  even  John's  attitude  towards  him 
was  softened  and  he  occasionally  held  converse  with 
him. 

"How  thinkest  thou,  Judas/'  said  he  once  conde 
scendingly,  "which  of  us  twain,  Peter  or  I,  will  be 
nearest  to  Christ  in  His  heavenly  kingdom?" 

Judas  thought  for  a  moment  and  replied: 

"I  think  thou  wilt." 

"And  Peter  thinks  he  will,"  smiled  John. 

"No.  Peter's  shouting  would  scatter  the  angels. 
Hearest  thou  him?  Of  course,  he  will  dispute  with  tkee 
and  will  strive  to  come  first  and  occupy  the  place,  for  he 
claims  that  he  too  loves  Jesus.  But  he  is  growing  old, 
while  thou  art  young.  He  is  slow,  while  thou  art  fleet- 
footed  and  thou  wilt  be  the  first  to  enter  with  Christ. 
Am  I  not  right?" 

"Yes.  I  shall  never  leave  Jesus'  side,  "  assented 
John. 

That  same  day  Simon  Peter  addressed  the  very  same 
question  to  Judas.  But  fearing  that  his  loud  voice  would 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  79 

be  heard  by  others  he  led  Judas  to  the  furthest  corner 
of  the  house. 

"Well  how  thinkest  thou?"  he  inquired  anxiously. 
"Thou  art  wise.  Even  the  Teacher  praises  thy  wisdom. 
Thou  wilt  tell  me  the  truth." 

"Thou,  of  course,"  the  Iscariot  replied  without  hes 
itation.  And  Peter  indignantly  exclaimed: 

"I  told  him  so." 

"But,  of  course,  even  there  he  will  try  to  dispute 
the  first  place  with  thee." 

"Of  course  he  will." 

"But  what  can  he  do  if  he  find  the  place  already 
occupied  by  thee?  Thou  wilt  not  leave  Him  alone.  Did 
he  not  call  thee  a  Rock?" 

Peter  laid  his  hand  on  Judas'  shoulder  and  fervently 
exclaimed : 

"I  tell  thee,  Judas,  thou  art  the  wisest  among  us. 
Pity  thou  art  so  malevolent  and  sneering.  The  Teacher 
does  not  like  it.  And  thou  couldst  be  a  beloved  disciple 
no  less  than  John.  But  even  unto  thee  I  shall  not  yield 
my  place  by  the  side  of  Jesus,  neither  here  on  earth  nor 
over  there.  Hearest  thou  me?"  And  he  raised  his  hand 
with  a  threatening  gesture. 

Thus  Judas  sought  to  please  both,  the  while  he  was 
harboring  thoughts  of  his  own.  And  remaining  the 
same  modest,  quiet  and  unobtrusive  Judas,  he  strove  to 
say  something  agreeable  to  all. 

Thus  he  said  to  Thomas:  "The  fool  believeth  every 
word,  but  the  man  of  wisdom  takes  heed  of  his  ways." 
But  to  Matthew  who  loved  to  eat  and  drink  and  was 
ashamed  of  this  weakness  he  cited  the  words  of  Solomon. 

"The  righteous  shall  eat  his  fill,  but  the  seed  of  the 
lawless  is  in  want." 

But  such  pleasant  words  he  spoke  rarely,  which  lent 


80  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

to  them  a  special  value.  Now  he  remained  silent  for 
long  periods  and  listened  attentively  to  others,  though 
he  kept  thinking  thoughts  of  his  own.  Judas  in  his 
musing  mood  had  a  disagreeable  and  ludicrous,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  disconcerting  appearance.  While  his 
cunning  live  eye  was  mobile  he  appeared  to  be  genuine 
and  gentle,  but  when  both  of  his  eyes  assumed  that  fixed 
and  rigid  look,  and  the  skin  on  his  forehead  gathered 
into  queer  wrinkles  and  folds,  one  received  the  disquiet 
ing  impression  that  within  that  skull  there  swarmed 
very  peculiar  thoughts,  utterly  strange,  quite  peculiar 
thoughts  that  had  no  language  of  their  own  and  they 
enveloped  the  cogitating  Iscariot  with  a  shroud  of  mys 
tery  so  disturbing  that  the  beholder  longed  to  have  him 
break  the  silence  quickly,  to  stir  a  little  or  even  to  lie. 
For  even  a  lie  uttered  by  a  human  tongue  seemed  truth 
and  light  in  the  face  of  this  hopelessly  mute  and  un 
responsive  silence. 

"Lost  in  thought  again,  Judas?"  rang  out  the  son 
orous  voice  of  Peter,  suddenly  breaking  through  the  dull 
silence  of  the  Iscariot's  musing.  "What  art  thou  think 
ing  of?" 

"Of  many  things,"  replied  the  Iscariot  with  a  quiet 
smile.  And  observing  the  unpleasant  effect  of  his  silence 
upon  the  others,  he  began  more  and  more  frequently 
to  separate  himself  from  the  disciples,  taking  lonely 
walks  or  spending  hours  alone  on  the  flat  roof  of  the 
house.  More  than  once  Thomas  collided  on  the  roof 
with  a  grey  bundle  out  of  which  suddenly  disentangled 
themselves  the  ungainly  limbs  of  Judas  and  was  startled 
by  the  well  known  mocking  accents  of  the  Iscariot's 
voice. 

Only  once  again  the  man  of  Kerioth  oddly  and  ab- 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  81 

ruptly  recalled  to  the  memory  of  the  disciples  the  Judas 
of  former  days,  and  this  occurred  during  the  dispute 
concerning  the  first  place  in  the  Kingdom  of  heaven.  In 
the  presence  of  the  Teacher,  Peter  and  John  hotly  and 
with  mutual  recriminations  defended  their  claims  to  the 
place  nearest  to  Jesus.  They  enumerated  their  merits, 
compared  the  degree  of  their  love  of  Jesus,  shouted 
angrily  and  even  abused  one  another  incontinently, — 
Peter,  all  flushed  with  wrath  and  thundering,  John  pale 
and  still,  with  trembling  hands  and  stinging  words. 
Their  dispute  was  fast  becoming  unseemly  and  the 
Teacher  was  commencing  to  frown,  when  Peter  chanced 
to  look  up  at  Judas  and  laughed  out  exultingly.  John 
also  glanced  at  Judas  and  smiled  contentedly.  Each 
remembered  what  the  wrise  Iscariot  had  told  him.  With 
the  foretaste  of  certain  triumph  they  both  summoned 
Judas  to  be  their  judge,  and  Peter  cried  out:  "Hey, 
thou  wise  Judas.  Tell  us  who  will  be  first  and  nearest 
to  Jesus,  he  or  I?" 

But  Judas  was  silent.  He  breathed  heavily  and 
fixed  his  gaze  longingly,  questioningly,  on  the  deep  and 
calm  eyes  of  Jesus. 

"Yes,"  condescendingly  agreed  John,  "tell  him  who 
will  be  the  first  and  nearest  to  Jesus." 

With  his  glance  still  fixed  on  Christ,  Judas  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet  and  replied  calmly  and  gravely: 

«T    » 

Jesus  slowly  dropped  his  eyes,  while  the  Iscariot, 
beating  his  breast  with  a  bony  finger  sternly  and  solemn 
ly  repeated: 

"I !  I  shall  be  near  Jesus." 

And  with  these  words  he  went  out  leaving  the 
disciples  dumbfounded  by  this  insolent  outbreak.  Only 


82  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

Peter,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  something,  whispered 
to  Thomas  in  an  unexpectedly  quiet  tone: 

"This  is  then  what  he  is  thinking  about.  Didst 
thou  hear  him?" 

CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  just  about  this  time  that  Judas  Iscariot  took 
his  first  decisive  step  towards  betrayal :  he  paid  a  secret 
visit  to  the  high  priest  Annas.  He  was  received  very 
sternly,  but  this  did  not  disconcert  him  and  he  demanded 
a  prolonged  private  interview.  Left  alone  with  the  stern 
ascetic  old  man  who  eyed  him  contemptuously  from  un 
der  his  bushy  eyebrows,  he  told  him  that  he,  Judas, 
was  a  pious  man  who  had  become  a  disciple  of  Jesus  of 
Nazareth  with  the  sole  aim  of  exposing  the  deceiver 
and  of  betraying  him  into  the  hands  of  the  law. 

"And  who  is  He,  this  Nazarene?"  slightingly  in 
quired  Annas,  as  if  he  had  heard  the  name  of  Jesus  for 
the  first  time. 

Judas  for  his  part  pretended  to  take  this  strange 
ignorance  of  the  high  priest  at  its  face  value  and  reported 
to  him  at  length  concerning  the  sermons  of  Jesus, 
His  wonders,  His  hatred  of  the  Pharisees  and  the 
Temple,  the  violations  of  the  Law  by  Him,  and  His 
desire  to  snatch  the  power  from  the  hands  of  the  ec 
clesiastics  and  to  establish  His  own  kingdom.  And  so 
skillfully  did  he  mingle  truth  with  falsehood  that  Annas 
glanced  at  him  more  attentively,  while  he  indolently  ob 
served  : 

"Are  there  so  few  deceivers  and  madmen  in  Judea?" 

"No.  But  He  is  a  dangerous  man,"  hotly  replied 
Judas.  "He  violates  the  Law.  And  it  is  better  for  one 
man  to  perish  than  for  the  whole  people." 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  83 

Annas  nodded  approvingly. 

"But  He  has,  methinks,  many  disciples." 

"Yes,  many." 

''And  they  probably  love  Him  devotedly?" 

"They  say  that  they  love  Him;  that  they  love  Him 
more  than  themselves." 

"But  if  we  should  want  to  seize  Him,  would  they 
not  take  His  part?  Will  there  be  no  uprising?" 

Judas  laughed  long  and  bitterly. 

"They?  They  are  cowardly  curs  who  run  as  soon  j 
as  a  man  stoops  to  pick  up  a  stone.  They!" 

"Are  they  so  bad?"  coldly  inquired  Annas. 

"And  do  the  bad  flee  from  the  good?  Do  not  ratherl 
the  good  flee  before  the  bad?  Ha!  They  are  good  and' 
therefore  they  will  run.     They  are  good  and  therefore 
they  will  hide  themselves.    They  are  good  and  therefore 
they  will  only  appear  when  J,esus  is  ready  for  burial. 
And  they  will  bury  Him  themselves,  do  thou  but  put 
Him  to  death." 

"But  do  they  not  love  Him?  Thou  saidst  so." 

"Their  Teacher  they  love  always,  but  more  in  death 
than  living.  As  long  as  the  Teacher  lives  He  is  apt  to 
examine  the  pupils,  and  woe  then  unto  the  latter.  But 
when  the  Teacher  is  dead,  they  become  teachers  in 
their  turn,  and  woe  then  unto  others!  Ha!" 

Annas  looked  searchingly  at  the  traitor,  and  his 
shriveled  lips  wrinkled  slightly :  it  was  a  sign  that  Annas 
was  smiling. 

"They  have  injured  thee.    I  see  it." 

"Can  anything  remain  a  secret  to  thy  insight,  O 
wise  Annas?  Thou  hast  penetrated  the  very  heart  of 
Judas.  Yes,  they  injured  poor  Judas.  They  said  that  I 


84  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

had  stolen  three  pieces  of  silver,  as  if  Judas  were  not 
the  most  honest  man  in  Israel." 

And  for  a  long  time  they  spoke  of  Jesus,  of  His 
disciples,  and  of  His  pernicious  influence  on  the  people 
of  Israel.  But  the  cautious  and  cunning  high  priest 
Annas  did  not  give  his  final  answer  on  this  occasion. 
He  had  been  watching  Jesus  for  a  long  time  and  had 
long  since  sealed  the  fate  of  the  prophet  of  Galilee  in 
the  secret  councils  of  his  relatives  and  friends,  the  chiefs 
and  the  Sadducees.  But  he  distrusted  Judas  who  had 
been  reported  to  him  as  an  evil  and  doubledealing  man. 
He  did  not  attach  much  faith  to  his  frivolous  remarks 
on  the  cowardice  of  the  disciples  and  the  people.  Annas 
had  entire  confidence  in  his  own  might,  but  he  feared 
bloodshed,  he  feared  to  stir  up  a  tumultuous  uprising 
into  which  the  stiffnecked  and  volatile  people  of  Jeru 
salem  could  be  so  easily  harangued;  he  feared  finally 
the  sternly  repressive  interference  of  Roman  author 
ities.  Fanned  by  resistance,  fructified  by  the  crimson 
blood  of  the  people  which  endows  with  life  all  where 
on  it  falls,  the  heresy  might  spread  all  the  more  rapidly 
and  engulf  Annas  himself,  his  rule  and  his  friends.  And 
when  the  Iscariot  sought  admission  for  the  second  time, 
Annas  was  perturbed  and  refused  to  receive  him.  But 
a  third  and  a  fourth  time  the  Iscariot  called,  insistent 
as  the  wind  that  knocks  day  and  night  against  the  closed 
door  and  breathes  through  the  fissures. 

"I  see  that  wise  Annas  has  some  apprehensions," 
said  Judas  when  finally  admitted  to  the  High  Priest. 

"I  am  strong  enough  to  fear  nothing,"  haughtily 
replied  Annas,  and  the  Iscariot  made  a  servile  obeis 
ance.  "What  wouldst  thou?" 

"I  want  to  betray  unto  you  the  Nazarene." 

"We  do  not  want  Him." 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  85 

Judas  bowed  low  and  lingered  humbly,  fixing  his  eye 
upon  the  high  priest. 

"Go." 

"But  I  must  come  again.  Is  it  not  so,  venerable 
Annas?" 

"Thou  wilt  not  be  admitted.    Go." 

But  again  and  again  Judas  of  Kerioth  knocked  at 
the  high  priest's  portal  and  was  once  more  admitted  into 
the  presence  of  the  aged  Annas.  Shriveled  and  angry, 
oppressed  with  thought,  he  regarded  the  betrayer  in  sil 
ence  and  seemed  to  be  counting  the  hairs  on  his  illshaped 
head.  Judas  also  was  silent,  as  if,  for  his  part,  counting 
the  hairs  in  the  silvery  thin  beard  of  the  high  priest. 

"Well,  thou  art  here  again?"  haughtily  ejaculated 
the  irritated  high  priest,  as  though  spuing  the  words  on 
his  visitor's  head. 

"I  want  to  betray  unto  you  the  Nazarene." 

They  both  lapsed  into  silence,  scanning  intently  one 
another's  features,  the  Iscariot  gazing  calmly,  but  a  feel 
ing  of  subdued  malevolence,  dry  and  cold  like  the  morn 
ing  frost  in  the  winter  time,  was  beginning  to  gnaw  at 
the  heart  of  Annas. 

"And  what  askest  thou  for  thy  Jesus?" 

"And  what  will  ye  give?" 

With  a  feeling  of  quiet  elation  Annas  insultingly  re 
torted  : 

"You  are  a  band  of  rascals,  all  of  you.  Thirty  pieces 
of  silver,  that  is  all  we  will  give  for  Him." 

And  his  heart  was  filled  with  delighted  gratification 
as  he  observed  how  Judas'  whole  body  was  set  agog 
by  this  announcement.  The  Iscariot  turned  and  scur 
ried  about,  agile  and  swift,  as  if  he  had  not  two  but 
a  dozen  legs. 

"For  Jesus?  Thirty  pieces  of  silver?"  cried  Judas 


86  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

in  a  tone  of  wild  amazement  that  rejoiced  the  heart 
of  Annas.  "For  Jesus  of  Nazareth?  You  would  buy  Jesus 
for  thirty  pieces  of  silver?  And  you  think  that  Jesus  can 
be  sold  unto  you  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver?" 

Judas  swiftly  turned  to  the  wall  and  laughed  into 
its  smooth  and  whited  face,  waving  wildly  arms. 

"Hearest  thou?  Thirty  pieces  of  silver!  For  Jesus !" 

With  quiet  enjoyment  Annas  indifferently  replied: 
If  thou  wilt  not  have  it,  go.  We  shall  find  some  man 
who  will  sell  more  cheaply." 

And  like  sellers  of  old  raiment  who  shout  and 
swear  and  scold,  fighting  over  the  price  of  some  worth 
less  garment,  they  commenced  their  monstrous  and  fren 
zied  haggling. 

Thrilled  with  a  strange  ecstasy  Judas  ran  about 
twisting  his  limbs  and  shouting,  and  enumerating  on 
the  fingers  of  his  hand  the  merits  of  Him  whom  he  was 
betraying. 

"And  that  He  is  good  and  heals  the  sick,  is  that 
nothing?  Is  that  worth  nothing  in  your  estimation?  Hey? 
No?  Tell  me  like  an  honest  man?" 

"If  thou,"  interposed  the  high  priest  whose  cold 
disfavor  was  rapidly  fanned  into  violent  wrath  by  the 
taunting  words  of  Judas, — but  the  later  interrupted  him 
unabashed. 

"And  that  He  is  youthful  and  beautiful  like  the 
narcissus  of  Sharon,  like  the  lily  of  the  valley?  Hey?  Is 
that  nothing?  Perhaps  you  will  say  that  He  is  aged  and 
worthless?" 

"If  thou,"  still  strove  to  cry  Annas,  but  his  senile 
voice  was  drowned  in  the  storm  of  Judas'  protests. 

"Thirty  pieces  of  silver!  That  makes  hardly  an 
obolus  for  a  drop  of  blood.  Less  than  half  an  obolus 
for  a  tear.  Quarter  an  obolus  for  a  groan.  And  the 


JUDAS   1SCAR10T  87 

cries  of  pain !  and  convulsions !  What  is  the  stopping 
of  His  heart?  And  the  closing  of  His  eyes?  Is  that  all 
for  naught?"  screamed  the  Iscariot  towering  over  the 
high  priest,  encircling  him  with  the  frenzied  whirlwind 
of  his  gestures  and  words. 

"For  all!  For  all!"  replied  the  breathless  high 
priest. 

"And  how  much  will  you  earn  on  the  deal?  Hey? 
Would  you  rob  poor  Judas?  Tear  the  piece  of  bread 
out  of  his  children's  mouths?  I  shall  go  out  into  the 
market  place  and  shout:  'Annas  has  robbed  poor  Judas. 
Help!'" 

"Wearied  and  dizzy,  Annas  in  futile  frenzy  stamped 
the  floor  with  his  soft  slipper  and  waved  him  away: 
"Begone!  Begone!" 

But  Judas  suddenly  made  a  humble  obeisance  and 
spread  out  his  arms:  "And  if  so,  why  art  thou  angry 
with  poor  Judas  who  is  seeking  the  good  of  his  chil 
dren?  Thou  too  hast  children,  fine,  handsome  young 
men.". 

"We  shall  get  another..  We  shall  get  another..  Be 
gone!" 

"And  did  I  say  that  I  would  not  give  in?  Do  I  not 
believe  thee  that  another  may  come  and  give  up  Jesus 
unto  you  for  fifteen  oboli?  For  two  oboli?  For  one 
obolus?" 

Then  with  another  low  obeisance,  and  with  ingra 
tiating  words,  Judas  submissively  agreed  to  accept  the 
money  offered  him.  With  a  trembling  and  wrinkled 
hand  Annas,  now  silent  and  flushed  with  excitement, 
gave  him  the  money.  He  sat  with  averted  face  and  in 
silence,  biting  his  lips  and  waited  until  Judas  had  tested 
every  silver  coin  between  his  teeth.  Now  and  then 


88  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

Annas  looked  around  and  then,  as  quickly  turned  his 
glance  to  the  ceiling  and  again  bit  his  lips. 

"There  are  so  many  false  coins  about  now,"  calmly 
explained  Judas.  "This  is  money  offered  up  by  pious 
people  for  the  Temple,"  remarked  Annas  looking  around 
hastily  and  still  more  quickly  turning  to  Judas  the  back 
of  his  bald  head  which  was  now  crimson  with  anger. 

"But  can  pious  people  distinguish  false  coins  from 
the  genuine?  Only  rogues  can  do  this." 

Judas  did  not  take  home  the  money  received  from 
the  high  priest,  but  going  beyond  the  city  he  buried  it 
beneath  a  stone.  And  he  returned  with  slow,  heavy  and 
cautious  steps,  like  a  wounded  animal  creeping  to  its 
lair  after  a  cruel  and  mortal  combat.  But  Judas  had  no 
lair  of  his  own  to  which  he  might  creep,  though  there 
was  a  house  and  in  that  house  he  saw  Jesus.  Tired, 
emaciated,  wrorn  out  with  his  incessant  war  against  the 
Pharisees  who  daily  surrounded  Him  in  the  Temple  like 
a  wall  of  white,  shining,  learned  foreheads,  He  was 
seated,  leaning  against  the  wall  and  was  apparently  fast 
asleep.  Through  the  open  window  entered  the  restless 
echoes  of  the  city,  behind  the  wall  was  heard  the  knock 
ing  of  Peter  who  was  making  a  new  table  for  the  com 
mon  meal  and  sang  a  Galilean  ditty  as  he  worked.  He 
heard  nothing  and  slept  soundly  and  firmly,  and  this 
was  He  who  had  been  bought  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 

Advancing  noiselessly,  Judas  with  the  gentle  care 
of  a  mother  fearing  to  awaken  her  ailing  babe,  writh  the 
amazement  of  a  dumb  brute  that  has  crept  from  its  lair 
and  lingers  in  fascination  before  some  pretty  white 
flower,  Judas  touched  His  soft  hair  and  precipitately 
withdrew  his  hand.  He  touched  it  again  and  as  noise 
lessly  crept  out. 

"Lord!"  he  exclaimed.  "Lord!" 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  89 

And  going  to  a  deserted  spot  he  wept  there  a  long 
time,  writhing,  twisting  his  limbs,  scratching  his  breast 
with  his  nails  and  biting  his  shoulders.  Suddenly  he 
ceased  to  weep,  to  moan  and  to  gnash  his  teeth  and 
lapsed  into  deep  thought,  turning  his  moist  face  to  one 
side  in  the  attitude  of  listening.  And  thus  he  stood  for 
a  long  time,  immobile,  determined  and  a  stranger  to  all 
like  his  very  fate. 


With  a  calm  love  and  tender  solicitude  Judas  sur 
rounded  the  doomed  Jesus  during  these  last  days  of  His 
brief  life.  Coy  and  timorous  like  a  maiden  in  her  first 
love,  strangely  intuitive  and  keen  of  perception,  he  divin 
ed  the  slightest  unexpressed  wish  of  Jesus,  penetrated 
into  the  hidden  depths  of  His  feelings,  His  fleeting  in 
stants  of  yearning,  His  heavy  moments  of  weariness. 
And  no  matter  where  the  foot  of  Jesus  stepped  it  rested 
on  something  soft,  no  matter  where  He  turned  His 
glance  it  met  something  pleasant.  Formerly  Judas  had 
held  in  disfavor  Mary  Magdalene  and  the  other  women 
whc  were  near  Jesus,  playing  rude  jokes  at  their  ex 
pense  and  causing  them  much  annoyance.  Now  he  be 
came  their  friend,  their  ludicrous  and  awkward  con 
federate.  With  a  profound  interest  he  discussed  with 
them  the  little  intimate  and  beloved  traits  of  Jesus,  quiz 
zing  them  insistently  for  a  long  time  concerning  one  and 
the  same  thing.  With  a  great  show  of  secrecy  he  thrust 
coins  into  their  hands,  and  they  bought  ointments,  the 
precious  and  fragrant  myrrh  so  beloved  of  Jesus,  and 
anointed  His  feet.  Haggling  desperately  he  bought  ex 
pensive  wine  for  Jesus  and  then  growled  when  Peter 
drank  it  all  with  the  indifference  of  a  man  to  whom 
only  quantity  matters.  In  that  rocky  country  surround- 


90  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

ing  Jerusalem  and  almost  bare  of  trees  and  flowers,  he 
managed  to  obtain  fresh  spring  flowers  and  green  herbs, 
and  offered  them  to  Jesus  through  the  mediation  of 
these  same  women.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
fetched  in  his  arms  little  children,  finding  them  some 
where  in  the  neighboring  homesteads  or  in  the  highways, 
and  forcedly  caressed  them  to  keep  them  from  weeping. 
And  it  frequently  happened  that  there  crawled  on  the 
knees  of  Jesus,  while  he  sat  in  deep  thought,  a  tiny, 
curly  haired  little  fellow  with  a  soiled  little  nose,  and 
insistently  sought  His  caress.  And  while  the  two  re 
joiced  in  one  another,  Judas  sternly  walked  a  short  dis 
tance  off  with  the  air  of  a  jailer  who  has  admitted  a 
butterfly  into  the  cell  of  his  prisoner  and  then  with  a 
show  of  asperity  grumbles  about  the  disorder. 

In  the  evenings,  when  darkness  and  fear  stood  guard 
at  the  door,  the  Iscariot  artfully  contrived  to  bring  into 
the  conversation  Galilee,  a  land  unknown  to  him  but 
dear  to  Jesus,  with  its  peaceful  lakes  and  green  shores. 
And  he  worried  the  clumsy  Peter  until  stifled  memories 
awoke  in  his  heart  and  before  his  eyes  and  ears  appeared 
vivid  pictures  and  sounds  of  the  beautiful  life  of  Galilee. 
Avidly  attentive  and  with  mouth  half-opened  like  a 
child's,  with  the  twinkling  of  anticipated  laughter  in  His 
eyes,  Jesus  listened  to  Peter's  impetuous,  ringing  and 
merry  speech,  and  at  times  He  so  loudly  laughed  at  his 
conceits  that  the  disciple  had  to  stop  his  recital  for  min 
utes  at  a  time.  But  better  even  than  Peter's  was  the 
speech  of  John.  There  was  nothing  ludicrous,  nothing 
unexpectedly  grotesque  in  his  words,  but  his  descrip 
tions  were  so  thoughtful,  unusual  and  beautiful  that 
tears  appeared  in  the  eyes  of  Jesus,  and  Judas  nudged 
Mary  Magdalene,  whispering  triumphantly  into  her 
ears :  "How  he  speaks !  Listen !" 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  91 

"I  am  listening." 

"But  listen  still  better.  You  women  never  listen 
well." 

And  when  they  all  dispersed  to  seek  their  bedsides, 
Jesus  kissed  John  with  a  tender  gratitude  and  cordially 
patted  the  shoulder  of  Peter. 

Without  envy,  with  a  contemptuous  indulgence, 
Judas  witnessed  these  caresses.  What  signified  all  these 
tales,  these  kisses,  these  sighs,  compared  with  that 
knowledge  which  he  had,  he,  Judas  of  Kerioth,  red- 
haired,  repulsive  Judas,  born  amid  the  rocks. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Betraying  Jesus  with  one  hand,  Judas  took  great 
pains  to  destroy  his  own  plans  with  the  other.  He  did 
not  attempt  to  dissuade  Jesus  from  embarking  on  that 
last  perilous  journey  to  Jerusalem,  as  did  the  women, 
he  even  inclined  to  side  with  the  relatives  of  Jesus  and 
with  those  of  his  disciples  who  considered  the  victory 
over  Jerusalem  indispensable  to  the  complete  triumph 
of  the  cause.  But  he  stubbornly  and  insistently  warned 
them  of  its  dangers  and  depicted  in  vivid  colors  the 
formidable  hostility  of  the  Pharisees,  their  readiness  to 
commit  any  crime  and  their  unflinching  determination 
either  openly  or  privily  to  slay  the  prophet  of  Galilee. 

Daily  and  hourly  he  spoke  of  it  and  there  was  not 
a  believer  whom  Judas  failed  to  admonish  shaking  his 
uplifted  finger  impressively  and  severely: 

"Jesus  must  be  guarded!  Jesus  must  be  guarded! 
Jesus  must  be  protected  when  the  time  comes." 

Whether  it  was  the  boundless  faith  of  the  disciples 
in  the  marvelous  power  of  their  Teacher,  or  the  con 
sciousness  of  the  righteousness  of  their  cause  or  sheer 


92  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

blindness,  Judas'  anxious  words  were  met  with  a  smile, 
and  his  endless  warnings  elicited  even  murmurs  of  re 
monstrance. 

Judas  managed  to  obtain  somewhere  a  couple  of 
swords,  but  only  Peter  was  pleased  with  his  foresight, 
and  only  Peter  praised  Jesus  and  the  swords,  while  the 
others  remarked  disapprovingly: 

"Are   the  warriors   to   gird  ourselves  with   swords. 
And  is  Jesus  a  general  and  not  a  prophet?" 
"But  if  they  will  want  to  slay  Him?" 
"They  will  not  dare  when  they  see  that  the  whole 
people  is  following  Him." 

"But  if  they  should  dare  after  all?  What  then?" 
And  John  scornfully  retorted: 

"One  might  think,  Judas,  that  thou  alone  lovest  the 
Teacher." 

And  greedily  clinging  to  these  words,  taking  no  of 
fence,  Judas  began  to  question  them  eagerly,  fervently, 
with  a  solemn  impressiveness : 

"But  do  ye  love  Him?  Truly?" 
And  each  believer  who  came  to  see  Jesus  he  re 
peatedly  questioned: 

"And  dost  thou  love  Him?  Dost  thou  love  Him 
truly?" 

And  all  answered  saying  that  they  truly  loved  Him. 

He  frequently  drew  Thomas  into  conversation  and 

warningly  raising  his  bony  forefinger  crowned  with  a 

long  and  untidy  finger  nail  he  significantly  admonished 

him: 

"Look  to  it,  Thomas.  A  terrible  time  is  approach 
ing.  Are  ye  prepared?  Why  didst  thou  not  take  the 
sword  which  I  brought?" 

And  Thomas  sententiously  replied: 

"We  are  men  unaccustomed  to  the  use  of  arms.  And 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  93 

if  we  take  up  the  struggle  with  the  Roman  soldiers  we 
shall  all  be  slain.  Besides  didst  thou  not  bring  only 
two  swords?  What  can  be  done  with  two  swords?" 

"We  can  get  others.  And  we  might  take  them  away 
from  the  soldiers,"  said  Judas  with  a  show  of  impatience, 
and  even  Thomas,  the  serious,  smiled  through  his  shag 
gy  beard. 

"Judas,  Judas!  What  thoughts  be  these?  And  where 
didst  thou  procure  these  swords?  For  they  resemble 
the  swords  of  the  Roman  soldiers." 

"I  stole  them.  I  might  have  stolen  more,  but  I 
heard  voices  and  fled." 

Thomas  answered  reproachfully  and  sadly: 

"There  again  thou  didst  wrong.  Why  stealest  thou, 
Judas?" 

"But  nothing  is  another's  property." 

"Good,  but  the  warriors  may  be  questioned  to-mor 
row  'Where  are  your  swords?'  and  not  finding  them 
they  may  suffer  punishment  innocently." 

And  later,  after  the  death  of  Jesus,  the  disciples  re 
membered  these  words  of  Judas  and  concluded  that  he 
had  purposed  to  destroy  them  together  with  their 
Teacher  by  luring  them  into  an  unequal  and  fatal  com 
bat.  And  once  more  they  cursed  the  hateful  name  of 
Judas  of  Kerioth,  the  Traitor. 

And  Judas,  after  such  conversation,  sought  out  the 
women  in  his  anger  and  complained  to  them  tearfully. 
And  the  women  heard  him  eagerly.  There  was  in  his 
love  to  Jesus  something  feminine  and  tender  and  it 
brought  him  nearer  to  the  women,  making  him  simple, 
intelligible  and  even  goodlooking  in  their  eyes,  though 
there  still  remained  a  certain  air  of  superiority  in  his 
attitude  towards  them. 

"Be  these  men?"  he  bitterly  denounced  the  disciples, 


94  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

turning  confidingly  his  blind  and  immobile  eye  towards 
Mary,  "No  they  are  not  men.  They  have  not  an  obolus' 
worth  of  blood  in  their  veins." 

"Thou  art  forever  speaking  evil  of  people,"  replied 
Mary. 

"Am  I  ever  speaking  evil  of  people?"  exclaimed 
Judas  in  surprise.  "Well,  I  may  sometimes  say  some 
thing  evil  of  them,  but  could  they  not  be  just  a  trifle 
better?  Ah  Mary,  stupid  Mary,  why  art  thou  not  a  man 
to  carry  a  sword?" 

"I  fear  I  could  not  lift  it,  it  is  so  heavy,"  smiled 
Mary. 

"Thou  wilt  wield  it,  if  men  prove  too  evil  to  draw 
a  sword.  Didst  thou  give  unto  Jesus  the  lily  which  I 
found  this  morn  in  the  hills?  I  rose  at  dawn  to  seek  it 
and  the  sun  was  so  red  to-day,  Mary.  Was  He  glad? 
Did  He  smile?" 

"Yes,  He  was  very  glad.  He  said  that  it  was  fra 
grant  with  the  odors  of  Galilee." 

"Of  course,  thou  didst  not  tell  Him  Judas  had  got 
ten  it,  Judas  of  Kerioth?" 

"Thou  badest  me  not  to  tell," 

"Truly,  truly",  sighed  Judas.  "But  thou  mightest 
have  mentioned  it  inadvertently,  women  are  so  prone  to 
talk.  Then  thou  didst  not  tell  it  Him  by  any  chance? 
Thou  wast  so  firm?  Yes,  yes,  Mary,  thou  art  a  good 
woman.  Thou  knowest  I  have  a  wife  somewhere.  I 
should  like  to  see  her  now:  perhaps  she  was  not  a  bad 
woman.  I  do  not  know.  She  used  to  say:  'Judas  is  a 
liar.  Judas,  son  of  Simon,  is  wicked!'  And  I  left  her. 
But  it  may  be  that  she  is  a  good  woman.  What  think- 
est  thou?" 

"How  can  I  know,  who  have  never  seen  her?" 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  95 

"Truly,  truly,  Mary.  And  what  thinkcst  thou,  thirty 
pieces  of  silver...  is  it  a  large  sum  of  money?" 

"I  think  it  is  not  so  much." 

"Truly,  .truly.  And  what  didst  thou  earn  when 
thou  wast  a  sinner?  Five  pieces  of  silver  or  ten?  Wast 
thou  high  in  price?" 

Mary  Magdalene  blushed  and  dropped  her  head  till 
her  luxuriant  golden  hair  hid  her  entire  face  leaving 
merely  the  rounded  white  chin  visible: 

"How  mean  art  thou,  Judas.  I  seek  to  forget  it, 
but  thou  rcmindest  me." 

"No,  Mary,  thou  shouldest  not  forget  it.  Why? 
Let  others  forget  that  thou  wast  a  sinner,  but  thou  for 
get  not.  It  is  meet  that  others  forget  it,  but  why 
shouldest  thou?" 

"I  lived  in  sin." 

"Let  him  fear  wrho  has  committed  no  sin.  But  he 
who  has  committed  sin,  why  should  he  fear?  Do  the 
dead  fear  death  and  not  the  living?  No,  the  dead  mock 
the  living  and  their  fear  of  death." 

Thus  cordially  talking  they  sat  together  for  hours, 
he,  well  on  in  years,  gaunt  hideous  to  behold,  with  ill- 
shaped  head  and  weirdly  disproportioned  face,  she 
youthful,  coy,  gentle,  fascinated  with  life  as  though  with 
some  legend  or  strange  dream. 

But  the  time  passed  heedlessly  and  the  thirty  pieces 
of  silver  were  reposing  under  the  stone,  and  the  terrible 
day  of  betrayal  was  approaching  inexorably.  Already 
Jesus  had  entered  Jerusalem  riding  on  the  foal  of  an 
ass,  and  the  people  had  acclaimed  Him,  spreading  their 
garments  in  His  path,  with  cries  of  triumphant  wel 
come: 

"Hosannah,  Hosannah !  Blessed  be  He  that  cometh 
in  the  name  of  the  Lord." 


96  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

And  so  great  was  the  jubilation,  and  so  irrepressible 
was  the  love  that  strove  heavenward  in  these  welcoming 
shouts  that  Jesus  wept  and  His  disciples  proudly  ex 
claimed: 

"Is  this  not  the  Son  of  God  who  is  with  us?" 

And  they  also  cried  out  in  triumph: 

"Hosannah !  Hosannah !  Blessed  be  He  that  cometti 
in  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

And  that  night  for  a  long  time  they  remained  awake 
thinking  over  the  solemn  and  triumphant  entry,  and 
Peter  was  like  unto  a  madman ;  he  was  as  one  possessed 
by  the  demon  of  merriment  and  pride.  He  shouted 
loudly,  drowning  the  speech  of  others  with  his  leonine 
roar,  he  laughed  uproariously,  flinging  his  laughter  at 
the  heads  of  others  like  large  rolling  boulders,  he  em 
braced  John,  and  James  and  even  kissed  Judas.  And  he 
boisterously  admitted  that  he  had  harbored  fears  con 
cerning  Jesus,  but  now  feared  no  longer,  for  he  saw  the 
love  the  people  bore  for  Him.  The  Iscariot's  unsteady 
eye  strayed  from  face  to  face  in  amazement.  He  mused 
for  a  while,  listened  and  looked  around  again,  and  then 
led  Thomas  aside.  Then,  as  if  impaling  him  against  the 
wall  with  his  piercing  glance  he  questioned  him  with 
wonderment  and  fear  not  unmixed  with  some  dim  hope 
fulness  : 

"Thomas,  and  if  He  is  right?  If  it  be  He  that  has 
the  rock  beneath  His  feet,  and  I  merely  shifting  sand? 
What  then?" 

"Of  whom  art  thou  speaking?"  inquired  Thomas. 

"What  will  Judas  of  Kerioth  do  then?  Then  I  shall 
have  to  strangle  Him  myself  to  bring  out  the  Truth. 
Who  is  playing  Judas  false,  ye  or  Judas  himself?  Who 
is  deceiving  Judas?  Who?" 

"I  cannot  understand  thee,  Judas.    Thou  speakest  in 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  97 

riddles.    Who  is  deceiving  Judas?  Who  is  right?" 
And  shaking  his  head  Judas  repeated  like  an  echo: 
"Who  is  deceiving  Judas?  Who   is  right?" 
And  still  more  surprised  was  Thomas,  and  he  felt 
even' worried  when  during  the  night  there  rang  out  the 
loud  and  almost  joyous  voice  of  Judas: 

"Then  there  will  be  no  Judas  of  Kerioth.  Then  there 
will  be  no  Jesus.    There  will  be  only. . . .  Thomas,  stupid 
Thomas !  Didst  thou  ever  wish  to  seize  this  earth  of  ours 
and  raise  it  in  thy  hands?  And  then  perhaps  to  drop  it?" 
"That  were  impossible,  what  sayest  thou  Judas?" 
"That  is  possible,"  replied  the  Iscariot  with  convic 
tion.     "And  we  shall  seize  it  some  day  and  lift  it  up 
in    our  hands    while  thou    art  asleep,    stupid    Thomas. 
Sleep.    I  am  merry,  Thomas.     When  thou  sleepest,  the 
flutes  of  Galilee  play  in  thy  nostrils,  Thomas.    Sleep." 

But  already  the  believers  had  scattered  throughout 
Jerusalem  and  disappeared  within  their  houses,  behind 
walls,  and  the  faces  of  the  people  who  still  walked 
abroad  were  now  inscrutable.  The  rejoicing  had  ceased 
Already  dim  rumors  of  peril  crept  out  of  some  crevices. 
Peter  was  gloomily  trying  the  edge  of  the  sword  given 
him  by  Judas,  and  ever  sadder  and  sterner  grew  the 
face  of  the  Teacher.  Time  was  swiftly  passing  and  in 
exorably  approached  the  dread  day  of  the  Betrayal.  Now 
also  the  Last  Supper  was  over,  pregnant  with  sadness 
and  dim  fears,  and  the  vague  words  of  Jesus  of  someone 
who  would  betray  Him  had  been  spoken. 

"Knowest  thou  who  will  betray  Him?"  inquired 
Thomas  gazing  at  Judas  with  his  straight  and  limpid, 
almost  transparent  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Judas,  sternly  and  resolute 
ly.  "Thou,  Thomas,  wilt  betray  Him.  But  He  does 
not  believe  Himself  what  He  is  saying.  It  is  time.  It 


98  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

is  time.  Why  does  He  not  call  to  His  side  Judas,  the 
strong  and  the  beautiful  ?" 

And  time,  the  inexorable,  was  now  measured  no 
longer  by  days  but  by  fast  fleeting  hours.  And  it  was 
even,  and  the  stillness  of  even,  and  lengthy  shadows 
gathered  over  the  earth,  the  first  piercing  arrows  of  the 
impending  night  of  great  conflict,  when  a  sad  and  solemn 
voice  sounded  through  the  darkness.  It  was  Judas  who 
spoke : 

"Thou  knowest  where  I  am  going,  Lord?  I  am 
going  to  betray  Thee  into  the  hands  of  Thine  enemies." 

And  there  was  a  long  silence,  and  the  stillness  of 
even  and  piercing  black  shadows. 

"Thou  art  silent,  Lord?  Thou  commandest  me  to 
go?" 

And  silence  again. 

"Bid  me  stay.  But  Thou  canst  not?  Or  darest  not? 
Or  wilt  not?" 

And  again  silence,  immense  as  the  eyes  of  Eternity. 

"But  Thou  knowest  that  I  love  Thee.  Thou  knowest 
all.  Why  lookest  Thou  thus  upon  Judas?  Great  is  the 
-secret  of  Thy  beautiful  eyes,  but  is  mine  the  less?  Bid 
me  stay. . . .  But  Thou  art  silent.  Thou  art  ever  silent? 
Lord,  Lord,  why  in  anguish  and  with  yearning  have  I 
sought  Thee  always,  sought  Thee  all  my  life  and  found 
Thee?  Make  Thou  me  free.  Lift  from  me  the  burden; 
it  is  greater  than  mountains  of  lead.  Hearest  Thou  not 
the  bosom  of  Judas  of  Kerioth  groaning  beneath  it?" 

And  final  silence,  unfathomable  as  the  last  glance 
of  Eternity. 

"I  go." 

And  the  stillness  of  even  was  not  broken,  it  cried 
not  out  nor  wept,  nor  faintly  echoed  the  fine  and  glassy 
air — so  still  was  the  sound  of  his  departing  steps.  They 


JUDAS   ISCARIOT  99 

sounded  and  were  lost.  And  the  stillness  of  even  re 
lapsed  into  musing,  it  stretched  its  lengthening  shadows, 
and  blushed  darkly,  then  suddenly  sighed  with  the 
yearning  rustle  of  stirring  foliage ;  it  sighed  and  was  still, 
lost  in  the  embrace  of  Night. 

Other  sounds  now  invaded  the  air,  rapping,  tapping, 
knocking:  as  if  someone  had  opened  a  cornucopia  of 
vivid  sonorous  noises  and  they  were  dropping  upon  the 
earth,  not  singly  or  in  twos,  but  in  heaps.  And  drown 
ing  them  all,  echoing  against  the  trees,  the  shadows  and 
the  wall,  enveloping  the  speaker  himself  roared  the  re 
solute  and  lordly  voice  of  Peter:  he  swore  that  he  would 
never  leave  his  Teacher. 

"Lord!"  he  cried,  longingly,  wrathfully.  "Lord! 
With  Thee  I  am  ready  to  go  to  prison  and  even  unto 
death." 

And  softly,  like  the  faint  echo  of  someone's  departed 
steps,  the  merciless  answer  sounded: 

"I  say  unto  thee,  Peter,  that  ere  the  cock  crow 
thrice  to-day  thou  wilt  have  denied  me  thrice." 

CHAPTER  VII. 

The  moon  had  already  risen  when  Jesus  started 
towards  Mount  Olivet  where  he  was  wont  of  late  to 
pass  his  nights.  But  He  lagged  strangely,  and  His  dis 
ciples,  who  were  ready  to  proceed,  urged  Him  on.  Then 
He  suddenly  spoke: 

"He  who  has  a  sack  let  him  take  it,  likewise  a 
staff.  And  He  who  has  none,  let  him  sell  his  raiment 
and  buy  a  sword.  For  I  say  unto  you  that  this  day  it 
shall  happen  unto  me  as  even  was  written :  he  was 
counted  among  the  transgressors !" 


100  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

The  disciples  were  amazed  and  exchanged  confused 
^glances. 

But  Peter  replied: 

"Lord!  Here  are  two  swords." 

He  glanced  searchingly  into  their  kindly  faces,  drop 
ped  His  head  and  gently  replied: 

"It  is  enough." 

Loudly  echoed  the  steps  of  the  wanderers  through 
the  narrow  streets  and  the  disciples  were  terrified  at 
the  sounds  of  their  own  steps.  Their  black  shadows 
lengthened  upon  the  white  moon-illuminated  walls  and 
they  were  terrified  at  the  sight  of  their  own  shadows. 
Thus  silently  they  passed  through  the  sleeping  city. 
Now  they  passed  out  of  the  gates  of  Jerusalem  and  in  a 
deep  cleft  among  the  hills  that  were  filled  with  myster 
ious  and  immobile  shadows  the  brook  of  Kedron  met 
their  gaze.  Now  everything  terrified  them.  The  soft 
gurgling  and  the  splashing  of  the  water  against  the 
stones  sounded  to  them  like  voices  of  people  lying  in 
ambush.  The  shapeless  fanciful  shadows  of  rocks  and 
trees  obstructing  their  way  worried  them,  and  the  mo 
tionless  stillness  of  the  night  appeared  to  them  endowed 
with  life  and  movement.  But  as  they  ascended  and 
neared  the  garden  of  Gethsemane  where  they  had  spent 
so  many  nights  in  security  and  peace  they  gradu 
ally  gained  courage.  Now  and  then  they  cast  a  back 
ward  glance  at  the  sleeping  city  now  reposing  white 
in  the  light  of  the  moon  and  discussed  their  recent 
fright;  and  those  who  walked  in  the  rear  heard  an  oc 
casional  fragment  of  the  Teacher's  words.  He  was  tell 
ing  them  that  they  would  all  forsake  Him. 

They  stopped  in  the  very  outskirts  of  the  garden. 
Most  of  the  disciples  remained  right  there  and  with  sub 
dued  voices  commenced  to  make  preparations  for  sleep, 


JUDAS  ISCARIQT  101 

spreading  their  mantles  in  the  transparent  lacework  of 
shadows  and  moonlight.  But  Jesus,  torn  with  dis 
quietude,  with  four  of  His  nearest  disciples  plunged 
further  into  the  depths  of  the  garden.  There  they  sat 
down  on  the  ground  that  had  not  yet  grown  cold  from 
the  heat  of  the  day,  and  while  Jesus  observed  silence, 
Peter  and  John  lazily  exchanged  meaningless  remarks. 
Yawning  with  weariness  they  spoke  of  the  chilly  night 
and  remarked  how  dear  the  meat  was  in  Jerusalem, 
while  fish  was  not  to  be  had  at  all.  They  were  guessing 
at  the  number  of  worshippers  that  would  gather  in 
Jerusalem  during  the  holidays,  and  Peter,  stretching  his 
words  into  a  prolonged  yawn,  affirmed  that  they  would 
amount  to  twenty  thousand,  while  John,  and  his  brother 
Tames  indolently  claimed  that  the  number  would  not 
exceed  ten  thousand.  Suddenly  Jesus  quickly  rose  to 
His  feet. 

"My  soul  is  sorrowful  even  unto  death.  Tarry  ye 
here  and  watch  a  while,"  He  said  and  with  swift  steeps 
He  retired  into  the  grove  where  He  was  lost  in  the  im 
penetrable  maze  of  light  and  shadows. 

"Where  did  He  go?"  wondered  John  raising  him 
self  on  his  elbow.  Peter  turned  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  departed  Teacher  and  wearily  answered: 

"I  don't  know." 

And  once  more  loudly  yawning  he  reclined  on  his 
back  and  lay  still.  The  others  too  had  quieted  down  by 
this  time  and  the  vigorous  sleep  of  healthy  fatigue 
chained  their  stolid  figures.  Through  his  heavy  sleep 
Peter  dimly  saw  something  white  bending  over  him  and 
seemed  to  hear  some  voice  that  sounded  afar  off  and  died 
leaving  no  trace  in  his  dulled  consciousness : 

"Simon  Peter,  sleepest  thou?" 

And  once  more  he  was  fast  asleep,  and  again  some 


ISCARIOT 


still  voice  reached  his  ear  and  died  away  leaving  no 
trace  : 

"Could  ye  not  watch  with  me  one  brief  hour?" 
"Lord,  if  Thou  knewest  how  sleepy  I  am,"  he 
thought  in  half  slumber,  but  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he 
had  said  it  aloud.  And  again  he  slept  and  a  long  time 
passed  when  suddenly  there  stood  beside  him  the  form 
of  Jesus  and  a  sonorous  waking  voice  roused  him  and 
the  others: 

"Are  ye  still  sleeping  and  resting?  It  is  finished. 
The  hour  has  come  for  the  Son  of  Man  to  be  betrayed 
into  the  hands  of  sinners." 

The  disciples  leaped  to  their  feet,  picking  up  their 
mantles  in  confusion  and  shivering  with  the  chill  of 
sudden  awaking.  Through  the  maze  of  trees,  illuminat 
ing  them  with  the  lurid  light  of  their  torches,  with 
heavy  tramping  of  feet  and  loud  noise,  and  the  crack 
of  breaking  twigs,  a  crowd  of  warriors  and  temple  at 
tendants  was  seen  approaching.  And  from  the  other 
side  the  rest  of  the  disciples  came  running,  trembling 
with  the  cold,  with  terrified,  sleepy  faces,  failing  to  real 
ize  what  had  occurred  and  anxiously  inquiring: 
"What  is  this?  Who  are  these  with  torches?" 
Thomas,  pale,  with  his  beard  awry,  with  chatting 
teeth,  remarked  to  Peter: 

"Apparently  these  men  are  after  us." 
Now  the  crowd  of  warriors  surrounded  them  and 
the  smoking  unsteady  glare  of  the  torches  had  chased 
the  quiet  and  serene  radiance  of  the  moon  somewhere 
into  the  heights  over  the  treetops.  At  the  head  of  the 
warriors  was  Judas  of  Kerioth;  scurrying  hither  and 
thither  and  keenly  rolling  his  seeing  eye  he  searched  for 
Jesus.  At  last  he  found  Him,  and  resting  for  a  moment 
his  glance  on  the  tall  and  slender  form  for  the  Master 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  103 

he  hurriedly  whispered  to  the  attendants:  "He  whom 
I  shall  kiss  the  same  is  the  man.  Take  Him  and  lead 
Him  carefully.  But  be  careful,  do  you  hear  me?" 

Then  hurriedly  moving  toward  Jesus,  who  awaited 
him  in  silence,  he  plunged  like  a  dagger  a  steady  and 
piercing  glance  into  His  calm,  dark  eyes. 

"Rejoice,  Rabbi,"  he  exclaimed  loudly,  imbuing  the 
words  of  common  salutation  with  a  strange  and  terrible 
significance. 

But  Jesus  was  silent,  and  the  disciples  gazed  awe- 
stricken  upon  the  Traitor,  unable  to  fathom  how  the 
soul  of  Man  could  contain  so  much  wickedness.  With  a 
hasty  look  the  Iscariot  measured  their  confused  ranks, 
noted  the  tremor  that  threatened  to  change  into  the 
abject  palsy  of  terror,  noted  their  pallor,  the  mean 
ingless  smiles,  the  nerveless  movements  of  arms  that 
seemed  to  be  gripped  with  iron  clamps  at  the  shoulder; 
and  his  heart  was  set  aflame  with  bitter  anguish  not 
unlike  the  agony  which  had  oppressed  Jesus  a  short  time 
since.  His  soul  transformed  into  a  hundred  ringing  and_ 
sobbing  chords,  he  rushed  forward  to  Jesus  and  tenderly 
kissed  His  windchilled  cheek,  so  softly,  so  tenderly,  with 
such  agony  of  love  and  yearning  that  were  Jesus  a 
flower  upheld  by  a  slender  stem,  that  kiss  would  not 
have  shaken  from  it  one  pearl  of  dew  or  dislodged  one 
tender  leaf. 

"Judas,"  said  Jesus,  and  the  lightning  of  His  glance 
bared  the  monstrous  mass  of  forbidding  shadows  that 
were  the  soul  of  the  Iscariot,  but  did  not  reveal  its  bound 
less  depths.  "Judas!  With  a  kiss  betrayest  thou  the 
Son  of  Man?" 

And  He  saw  that  hideous  chaos  quivering,  stirring 
and  agog  through  and  through.  Speechless  and  stern 
as  Death  in  his  haughty  majesty  stood  Judas  of  Kerioth 


104  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

and  all  of  his  being  within  him  groaned,  thundered 
and  wailed  with  a  myriad  of  stormy  and  fiery  voices: 
"Yes !  With  a  kiss  of  love  we  betray  Thee.  With  a  kiss 
of  love  we  betray  Thee  unto  mockery,  torture  and  death. 
With  a  voice  of  love  we  summon  torturers  from  their 
dark  lairs,  and  rear  a  cross.  And  high  above  the  gloom 
of  the  earth  upon  the  cross  we  raise  up  love  crucified  by 
love!" 

Thus  stood  Judas,  wordless  and  cold  as  death,  and 
the  cry  of  his  soul  was  met  by  the  cries  and  the  tumult 
that  encircled  Jesus.  With  the  rude  indecision  of  armed 
force,  with  the  awkwardness  of  a  dimly  grasped  purpose 
the  soldiers  had  already  seized  Him  by  the  hand  and 
were  dragging  Him  somewhere,  mistaking  their  own 
aimlessness  for  resistance,  their  own  terror  for  their 
victim's  mockery  and  scorn.  Like  a  herd  of  frightened 
lambs  the  disciples  had  huddled  together,  offering  no 
resistance,  though  impeding  everybody  including  them 
selves  ;  and  only  a  few  had  any  thought  of  going  or  act 
ing  for  themselves,  apart  from  the  rest.  Surrounded 
on  every  side,  Peter,  son  of  Simon,  with  an  effort,  as  if 
having  lost  all  strength,  drew  the  sword  from  its  sheath 
and  weakly  dropped  it  with  a  glancing  blow  upon  the 
head  of  one  of  the  servants, — but  failed  to  harm  him 
in  the  least.  And  observing  this  Jesus  commanded  him  to 
drop  the  useless  weapon.  With  a  faint  rattle  the  sword 
fell  to  the  ground,  a  piece  of  metal  so  manifestly  bereft 
of  its  power  to  pierce  and  to  injure  that  none  troubled 
to  pick  it  up.  Thus  it  lay  in  the  mud  and  many  days 
later  some  children  found  it  in  the  same  spot  and  made 
it  their  plaything. 

The  soldiers  were  dispersing  the  disciples  and  the 
latter  again  huddled  together  stupidly  getting  into  the 
soldiers'  way,  and  this  continued  until  the  soldiers  were 


JUDAS  ISCAR10T  105 

seized  with  a  contemptuous  wrath.  There  one  of  them 
with  a  frown  walked  up  to  the  shouting  John,  while 
another  roughly  brushed  aside  the  arm  of  Thomas  who 
had  placed  it  upon  his  shoulder  in  an  endeavor  to  argue 
with  him,  and  in  his  turn  shook  threateningly  a  power 
ful  balled  fist  before  a  pair  of  very  straightlooking  and 
transparent  eyes.  And  John  ran,  as  also  did  Thomas 
and  James ;  and  all  the  disciples,  as  many  as  were  there, 
forsaking  Jesus,  ran  helter-skelter  to  save  themselves. 
Losing  their  mantles,  running  into  the  trees,  stumbling 
r  gainst  stones  and  falling  they  fled  into  the  mountains, 
driven  by  terror  and  in  the  stillness  of  the  moonlit 
night  the  ground  resounded  under  their  fugitive  feet. 
Some  unknown,  who  had  evidently  just  risen  from  sleep, 
for  he  was  covered  with  only  a  blanket,  excitedly  scur 
ried  to  and  fro  in  the  crowd  of  warriors  and  servitors. 
But  as  they  tried  to  seize  him  he  cried  out  in  fear  and 
started  to  run,  like  the  others,  leaving  his  raiment  in 
the  hands  of  the  soldiers.  Thus  perfectly  nude,  he  ran 
with  desperate  leaps  and  his  naked  body  gleamed  oddly 
in  the  moonlight. 

When  Jesus  was  led  away  Peter  emerged  from  his 
hiding  place  behind  the  trees  and  from  a  distance  fol 
lowed  his  Teacher.  And  seeing  ahead  of  him  another 
man  who  walked  in  silence,  he  thought  it  was  John  and 
softly  called  to  him: 

"John,  is  it  thou?" 

"Ah,  thou  Peter?"  replied  the  other  stopping,  and 
Peter  recognized  the  Betrayer's  voice.  "Why  then  Peter 
didst  thou  not  flee  with  the  others?" 

Peter  stopped  and  loathingly  replied: 

"Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan." 

Judas  laughed  and  paying  no  more  attention  to 
Peter  walked  on  towards  the  place  where  gleamed  the 


106  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

smoking  torches  and  the  rattle  of  arms  mingled  with 
the  tramp  of  feet.  Peter  followed  him  cautiously  and 
thus  almost  together  they  entered  the  court  of  the  high 
priest's  house  and  joined  a  crowd  of  servants  warming 
themselves  at  the  fire.  Judas  was  sullenly  warming 
his  bony  hands  over  the  logs  when  he  heard  somewhere 
in  the  rear  the  loud  voice  of  Peter: 

"No,  I  don't  know  Him." 

But  someone  evidently  insisted  that  he  was  a  dis 
ciple  of  Jesus,  for  even  more  loudly  Peter  repeated : 

"But  no  and  no,  I  don't  know  whereof  ye  are  speak- 
ing." 

Without  looking  around  and  smiling  involuntarily 
Judas  nodded  his  head  affirmingly  and  murmured : 

"Just  so,  Peter.  Yield  to  none  thy  place  at  the  side 
of  Jesus." 

And  he  did  not  see  how  the  terror-stricken  Peter 
departed  from  the  court  in  order  not  to  be  caught  again. 
And  from  that  evening  until  the  very  death  of  Jesus 
Judas  never  saw  near  Him  any  of  His  disciples:  and 
in  that  multitude  there  were  only  these  two,  inseparable 
unto  death,  strangely  bound  together  by  fellow-suffer 
ing, — He  who  was  betrayed  unto  mockery  and  torture 
?nd  he  who  had  betrayed  Him.  From  one  chalice  of  suf 
fering  they  drank  like  brothers,  the  Betrayed  and  the 
Traitor,  and  the  fiery  liquid  seared  alike  the  pure  and 
the  impure  lips. 

Gazing  fixedly  at  the  fire  which  beguiled  the  eye 
into  a  sensation  of  heat,  holding  over  it  his  lanky  and 
shivering  hands,  all  tangled  into  a  maze  of  arms  and 
legs,  trembling  shadows  and  fitful  light,  the  Iscariot 
groaned  pitifully  and  hoarsely: 

"How  cold!  My  God,  how  cold!" 

Thus  in  the  night  time,  when  the  fisher  folk  have 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  107 

set  out  in  their  boats  leaving  ashore  a  smouldering  camp- 
fire  some  strange  denizen  of  the  deep  may  come  forth 
from  the  bowels  of  the  sea  and  creeping  to  the  fire  gaze 
on  it  fixedly  and  wildly,  stretching  its  limbs  towards 
the  flames  and  groan  pitifully  and  hoarsely: 

"How  cold!  Oh,  my  God,  how  cold!" 

Suddenly  behind  his  back  the  Iscariot  heard  a 
tumult  of  loud  voices,  cries,  the  sound  of  rude  laughter, 
full  of  the  familiar,  sleepily-greedy  malice,  and  the  thud 
of  sharp,  quick,  blows  raining  on  a  living  body.  He 
turned  around,  pierced  through  and  through  with  agon 
ized  pain,  aching  in  every  limb  and  in  every  bone — they 
were  beating  Jesus. 

It  has  come  then. 

He  saw  the  soldiers  lead  Jesus  into  the  guard-house. 
The  night  was  passing,  the  fires  were  going  out,  ashes 
began  to  cover  them,  and  from  the  guard-house  there 
came  still  the  noise  of  hoarse  shouts,  laughter  and  oaths. 
They  were  beating  Jesus.  As  one  who  has  lost  his  way 
the  Iscariot  scurried  about  the  empty  court,  stopping 
himself  suddenly  on  a  run,  raising  his  head  and  starting 
off  again,  stumbling  in  surprise  against  the  campfires 
and  the  walls.  Then  he  glued  his  face  to  the  walls  of 
the  guard-house,  to  the  cracks  in  the  door,  to  the  win 
dows  and  greedily  watched  what  was  going  in  within. 
He  saw  a  stuffy,  crowded,  dirty  little  room,  like  all  the 
guard-houses  in  the  world,  with  a  floor  that  had  been 
diligently  spat  on  and  with  walls  that  were  greasy  and 
stained  as  if  hundreds  of  filthy  people  had  walked  or 
slept  upon  them.  And  he  saw  the  Man  who  was  being 
beaten.  They  smote  Him  on  the  face  and  on  the  head, 
they  flung  Him  from  one  to  another  across  the  room  like 
a  sack.  And  because  He  did  not  cry  out  or  resist  after 
minutes  of  strained  observation  it  actually  appeared  as 


108  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

though  it  were  not  a  living  being  but  some  limp  manikin 
without  bones  or  blood  that  was  thrown  about.  And  the 
figure  bent  over  oddly,  just  like  a  manikin,  and  when  in 
falling  it  struck  the  floor  with  its  head  the  impression 
of  the  contact  was  not  like  that  of  some  hard  object 
striking  another,  but  as  of  some  thing  soft  and  incap 
able  of  pain.  And  after  watching  it  long  it  seemed  like 
some  weird  and  interminable  game,  something  that  al 
most  amounted  to  an  illusion.  After  one  vigorous  blow 
the  man  or  the  manikin  smoothly  dropped  on  the  knees 
of  a  soldier.  He  pushed  it  away  and  it  turned  and  fell 
on  the  next  man's  knees,  and  so  on.  Shouts  of  wild 
laughter  greeted  this  game  and  Judas  also  smiled — as  if 
some  powerful  hand  with  fingers  of  steel  had  torn  open 
his  mouth.  The  lips  of  Judas  had  played  him  false  this 
time. 

The  night  seemed  to  drag  and  the  campfires  still 
smouldered.  Judas  fell  back  from  the  wall  and  slowly 
trudged  over  to  one  of  the  fires,  stirred  up  the  coals, 
revived  the  flames,  and  though  now  he  did  not  feel  cold, 
he  held  over  it  his  slightly  trembling  hands.  And  long 
ingly  he  murmured: 

"Ah,  it  hurts,  little  son,  it  hurts,  child,  child,  child. 
It  pains,  very,  very  much." 

Then  he  walked  over  to  the  window  that  gleamed 
yellow  from  the  dim  lantern  within  the  bars  and  once 
more  he  commenced  to  watch  the  chastisement  of  Jesus. 
Once  before  the  very  eyes  of  Judas  flitted  the  vision  of 
His  dark  face,  now  disfigured  and  encircled  in  a  maze 
of  tangled  hair.  There  someone's  hand  seized  this  hair, 
felled  the  Man  and  methodically  turning  the  head  from 
side  to  side  began  to  wipe  with  His  face  the  filthy  floor. 
Under  the  very  window  a  soldier  slept  opening  his  wide- 
open  mouth  wherein  two  rows  of  teeth  gleamed  white 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  109 

and  shiny.  Now  somebody's  broad  back  with  a  fat  bare 
neck  shut  out  the  view  from  the  window  and  nothing 
more  could  be  seen.  And  suddenly  all  grew  still. 

"What  is  it?  Why  are  they  silent?  What  if  they 
have  comprehended?" 

Instantly  the  head  of  Judas  was  filled  with  the 
roaring,  shouting  and  tumult  of  a  thousand  frenzied 
thoughts.  What  if  they  have  realized?  What  if  they 
have  comprehended  that  this  was — the  very  best  among 
men.  This  is  so  plain,  so  simple.  What  is  going  on 
there  now?  Are  they  kneeling  before  Him,  weeping 
softly,  kissing  His  feet?  There  He  will  emerge  in  an 
instant,  and  behind  Him  will  come  forth  in  abject  sub 
mission  the  others;  how  He  will  come  forth  and  draw 
near  to  Judas,  the  conqueror,  the  Son  of  Man,  the  Lord 
of  Truth,  God... 

Who  is  deceiving  Judas?  Who  is  right? 

But  no.  Shouts  and  uproar  again.  They  are  beat 
ing  Him  again.  They  have  not  comprehended.  They 
have  not  realized  and  they  are  beating  Him  with  greater 
violence,  more  cruelly.  And  the  fires  are  burning  low, 
being  covered  with  ashes,  and  the  smoke  over  them  is 
as  transparently  blue  as  the  air,  and  the  sky  is  as  light 
as  the  moon.  It  is  the  dawn  of  day. 

"What  is  day?"  asked  Judas. 

Now  everything  is  ablaze,  everything  glows,  every 
thing  has  grown  young,  and  the  smoke  above  is  no 
longer  blue  but  pink.  The  sun  is  rising. 

"What  is  the  sun?"  asketh  Judas. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
They  pointed  him  out  with  their  fingers,  and  some 


110  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

contemptuously,  while  others  with  hatred  and  terror  ad 
ded: 

"See,  this  is  Judas,  the  Traitor." 
This  was  the  beginning  of  his  shameful  infamy  to 
which  he  condemned  himself  for  all  ages.  Thousands  of 
years  will  pass,  nation  will  succeed  nation,  and  still  the 
words  will  be  heard  in  the  air,  uttered  with  contempt 
and  dread  by  the  good  and  the  evil : 

"Judas,  the  Traitor!  Judas,  the  Traitor!" 
But  he  listened  with  indifference  to  the  words 
spoken  concerning  him,  absorbed  in  a  feeling  of  a  sup 
reme  curiosity.  From  the  very  morn  that  Jesus  was 
led  out  of  the  guard-house  after  His  chastisement  Judas 
followed  Him,  his  heart  strangely  free  from  longing, 
pain  or  joy.  It  was  only  filled  with  the  unconquerable 
craving  to  see  and  to  hear  all.  Though  he  had  not  slept  all 
night  he  felt  as  though  walking  on  air ;  where  the  people 
would  not  let  him  pass  he  elbowed  his  way  forward  and 
with  agility  gained  a  point  of  vantage.  During  the 
examination  of  Jesus  by  Kaiaphas  he  held  his  hand  to 
his  ear  so  as  not  to  lose  a  word  and  nodded  his  head 
approvingly,  whispering : 

"That's  so.  That's  so.  Hearest  Thou  this,  Jesus?" 
But  he  was  not  free  —  he  was  like  a  fly  tied  to  a 
thread :,  buzzing  it  flies  hither  and  thither  but  not  for  an 
instant  the  pliant  and  obstinate  thread  release^  it. 
Thoughts  that  seemed  hewed  out  of  stone  weighed  down 
his  head  and  he  could  not  shake  them  off.  He  knew 
not  what  thoughts  these  were,  he  feared  to  stir  them  up, 
but  he  felt  their  presence  constantly.  And  at  times 
they  threatened  to  overwhelm  him,  almost  crushing  him 
with  their  incredible  weight  as  though  the  roof  of  some 
rocky  vault  slowly  and  terribly  subsided  over  his  head. 
Then  he  held  his  hand  to  his  heart  and  shook  himself 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  111 

as  though  shivering  with  the  cold,  and  his  glance  stray 
ing  to  another  and  still  another  spot  as  Jesus  was  led 
out  from  the  presence  of  Kaiaphas,  he  met  His  wearied 
glance  at  quite  close  quarters,  and  without  rendering 
account  to  himself  of  his  action,  he  nodded  his  head  a  few 
times  with  a  show  of  friendliness  and  murmured: 

"I  am  here,  sonny,  I  am  here/'  Then  he  wrathfully 
shoved  aside  some  gaping  countryman  who  stood  in 
his  way.  Now  they  were  moving,  an  immense  and  noisy 
throng,  on  to  Pilate,  for  the  last  examination  and  trial, 
and  with  the  same  insupportable  curiosity  Judas  eagerly 
and  swiftly  scanned  the  faces  of  the  people.  Many  were 
entirely  unknown  to  him;  Judas  had  never  seen  them 
before;  but  some  there  were  who  had  shouted  "Hosan- 
nah!"  to  Jesus,  and  with  every  step  the  number  of  such 
seemed  to  increase. 

"Just  so!"  flashed  through  the  mind  of  Judas.  He 
reeled  like  a,  drunken  man.  "It  is  all  finished.  Now  they 
will  shout:  He  is  ours!  He  is  our  Jesus!  What  are  ye 
doing?  And  everyone  will  see  it. . ." 

But   the  believers  walked  in  silence,  with   forced 
smiles  on  their  faces,  pretending  that  all  this  did  not 
concern  them  in  the  least.     Others  discussed  something 
in  subdued  tones,  but  in  the  tumult  and  commotion,  in 
the  uproar  of  frenzied  shouts  of  Christ's  enemies,  their 
timid  voices  were  drowned  without  leaving  a  trace.  And 
again  he  felt  relieved.    Suddenly  Judas  noticed  Thomas, 
who  was  cautiously  proceeding  not  afar  off,  and  with  a 
sudden  resolve  he  rushed  forward  intending  to  speak  to 
him.     Seeing  the  Traitor,  Thomas  was  frightened  and 
sought  to  escape,  but  in  a  narrow  and  dirty  lane,  be 
tween  two  walls,  Judas  caught  up  with  him : 
"Thomas!  Wait!" 


112  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

Thomas  stopped  and  solemnly  holding  up  both 
hands  exclaimed: 

"Depart  from  me,  Satan." 

With  a  gesture  of  impatience  the  Iscariot  replied: 

"How  stupid  thou  art,  Thomas!  I  thought  that 
thou  hadst  more  sense  than  the  others.  Satan!  Satan! 
This  must  be  proved." 

Dropping  his  hands,  Thomas  inquired  in  surprise: 

"But  didst  thou  not  betray  the  Teacher?  I  saw  with 
my  own  eyes  that  thou  broughtest  the  soldiers.  Didst 
thou  not  point  out  Jesus  unto  them?  If  this  is  not  be 
trayal,  what  is  a  betrayal?" 

"Something  else,  something  else,"  hastily  interposed 
Judas.  "Listen.  There  are  many  of  you  here.  It  be 
hooves  you  to  meet  and  to  demand  loudly:  'Give  unto 
us  Jesus.  He  is  ours.'  They  will  not  refuse  you,  they 
will  not  dare.  They  will  understand  themselves..." 

"What  art  thou  saying!"  replied  Thomas  shaking 
his  head.  "Didst  thou  not  see  the  number  of  armed 
soldiers  and.servants  of  the  temple?  And,  besides,  a  court 
has  not  been  held  yet,  and  we  must  not  interfere  with 
the  court.  Will  not  the  court  understand  that  Jesus  is 
innocent  and  will  not  the  judges  immediately  order  Him 
released?" 

"Dost  thou  think  so  too?"  musingly  inquired  Judas. 
"Thomas,  Thomas,  but  if  this  be  the  truth?  What  then? 
Who  is  right?  Who  deceived  Judas?" 

"We  argued  all  night  and  we  decided  that  the  judges 
simply  could  not  condemn  the  Innocent  one.  But  if 
they  should.." 

"Well?"  urged  the  Iscariot. 

"...  then  they  are  not  true  judges.  And  they  will 
fare  ill  some  day  when  they  give  account  to  the  real 
Judge.." 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  113 

"The  real  Judge!  Is  there  a  real  one?"  laughed 
Judas. 

"And  the  brethren  have  all  cursed  thee,  but  as  thou 
sayest  that  thou  art  not  a  Traitor,  I  think  thou  oughtest 
to  be  judged. ." 

Without  waiting  to  hear  the  end  Judas  .abruptly 
turned  on  his  heels  and  rushed  off  in  pursuit  if  the  de 
parting  multitude.  But  he  slowed  down  and  walked 
deliberately,  realizing  that  a  crowd  never  proceeds  very 
fast  and  that  by  walking  apart  one  can  always  catch 
up  with  it. 

When  Pilate  led  Jesus  out  of  his  palace  and  placed 
Him  in  full  view  of  the  people,  Judas,  pinned  to  a  column 
by  the  heavy  backs  of  some  soldiers,  frenziedly  twisted 
his  head  in  order  to  see  something  between  two  shining 
helmets.  He  suddenly  realized  that  now  all  was  over 
indeed.  The  sun  shone  high  over  the  heads  of  the  multi 
tude  and  under  its  very  rays  stood  Jesus,  bloodstained, 
pale,  with  a  crown  of  thorns  the  sharp  points  of  which 
had  pierced  His  brow.  He  stood  at  the  very  edge  of  the 
elevation,  visible  from  His  head  to  His  small  sunbrowned 
feet,  and  so  calmly  expectant  He  was,  so  radiant  in  His 
sinlessness  and  purity  that  only  a  blind  man  unable  to 
see  the  very  sun  could  fail  to  see  it,  only  a  madman 
could  fail  to  realize  it.  And  the  people  were  silent,  so 
silent  that  Judas  heard  the  breathing  of  the  soldier  in 
front  of  him,  and  the  scraping  of  his  belt  as  he  took  each 
breath. 

"That's  it.  It  is  all  over.  They  will  now  under 
stand,"  thought  Judas  ;  and  suddenly  some  strange  sensa 
tion  not  unlike  the  blinding  joy  of  falling  from  an  infinite 
altitude  into  the  gaping  abyss  of  blue  stopped  his  heart. 

Contemptuously  stretching  his  lip  down  to  his  clean 
shaven,  rotund  chin,  Pilate  flings  at  the  people  dry 


114  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

curt  words  as  one  might  cast  bones  at  a  horde  of  hungry 
hounds  to  cheat  their  thirst  for  fresh  blood  and  living 
quivering  flesh. 

"Ye  have  brought  unto  me  this  Man  as  a  corrupter 
of  the  people.  I  have  examined  Him  before  you  and 
have  found  the  Man  guilty  of  nothing  whereof  ye  ac 
cuse  Him. ." 

Judas  closed  his  eyes.     He  was  waiting. 

And  the  whole  people  began  to  shout,  scream  and 
howl  with  a  thousand  bestial  and  human  voices: 

"Death  unto   Him!  Crucify  Him!   Crucify  Him!" 

And  now,  as  if  deriding  their  own  souls,  as  if  crav 
ing  to  taste  to  the  dregs  in  one  moment  all  the  infinity 
of  fall,  frenzy  and  shame,  these  very  people  screaming 
and  howling  demand: 

"Release  unto  us  Barabbas.  But  Him  crucify! 
Crucify !" 

But  the  Roman  has  not  yet  spoken  his  final  word. 
His  haughty  cleanshaven  face  is  twitching  with  loathing 
and  wrath.  He  understands..  He  has  comprehended. 
There  He  is  speaking  softly  to  the  servants  of  the 
temple,  but  his  voice  is  drowned  in  the  uproar  of  the 
multitude.  What  is  he  saying?  Does  he  command  them 
to  take  up  their  swords  and  to  fall  upon  the  madmen? 

"Bring  me  water!" 

Water?  What  kind  of  water?  What  for? 

There  he  is  washing  his  hands. . .  why  is  he  wash 
ing  his  white,  clean  ringcovered  hands?  And  now  he  cries 
out  angrily  raising  his  hands  in  the  face  of  the  amazed 
people : 

"I  am  innocent  of  the  blood  of  this  righteous  man. 
See  ye  to  it." 

The  water  is  still  dripping  from  these  white  fingers 
down  on  the  marble  slabs  of  the  floor,  but  some  white 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  115 

mass  is  already  limply  groveling  at  the  feet  of  Pilate, 
someone's  burning  and  sharp  lips  are  kissing  his  weakly 
resisting  hand,  clinging  to  it  like  a  leech,  sucking  at  it, 
drawing  the  blood  to  the  surface  and  almost  biting  it. 
With  loathing  and  dread  he  looks  down  and  sees  a  gi 
gantic  and  writhing  body,  a  wild  face  that  looks  as  though 
it  had  been  split  in  twain,  two  eyes  so  strangely  unlike 
one  another,  as  though  not  one  creature  but  a  multitude 
lay  clutching  at  his  feet  and  hands.  And  he  hears  a 
fervent  and  broken  whisper: 

"Thou  art  wise!  Thou  art  noble!  Thou^art  wise!" 

And  this  savage  face  seems  to  glow  with  such  truly 
satanic  joy  that  Pilate  cannot  repress  a  cry  as  he 
repels  him  with  his  foot,  and  Judas  falls  down  to  the 
ground.  And  lying  on  the  flagstones,  like  an  over 
turned  devil,  he  still  stretches  out  his  hand  towards 
Pilate  and  shouts  as  one  infatuated: 

"Thou  art  wise!  Thou  art  noble!  Thou  art  wise!" 
Then  he  swiftly  leaps  to  his  feet  and  flees  accom 
panied  by  the  laughter  of  the  soldiers.  All  is  not  yet 
over.  When  they  see  the  cross,  when  they  see  the  nails, 
they  may  comprehend  then...  What  then?  Passingly 
he  notices  Thomas,  breathless  and  pale,  and  for  some 
reason  nods  to  him  assuringly.  Then  he  catches  up  with 
Jesus  on  the  way  to  the  execution.  The  path  is  hard; 
the  little  stones  roll  from  under  one's  feet;  Judas  sud 
denly  realizes  that  he  is  tired.  He  concentrates  his  mind 
on  finding  a  good  footfold,  and  as  he  looks  about  he 
sees  Mary  Magdalene  v/eeping,  he  sees  a  multitude  of 
weeping  women,  with  dishevelled  hair,  red  eyes,  dis 
torted  lips,  all  the  infinite  grief  of  the  feminine  soul 
given  over  unto  despair.  Suddenly  he  revives  and  tak 
ing  advantage  of  an  opportune  moment,  he  rushes  for- 


116  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

ward  to  Jesus: 

"I  am  with  Thee/'  he  whispers  hurriedly. 
The  soldiers  drive  him  away  with  stinging  blows 
of  their  whips,  and  writhing  to  escape  the  leash,  gnash 
ing  his  teeth  at  the  soldiers,  he  hurriedly  explains: 

"I  am  with  Thee.  Thither.  Understandest  Thou? 
Thither!" 

Wiping  the  blood  from  his  face  he  shakes  his  fist 
at  the  soldier  who  turns  around  and  points  him  out  to 
his  comrades.  He  looks  about  for  some  reason  in  search 
of  Thomas,  but  finds  neither  him  nor  any  of  the  other 
disciples  in  the  accompanying  crowd.  Again  he  feels 
weary  and  heavily  shuffles  his  feet,  carefully  scanning 
the  sharp  little  crumbling  stones  underfoot. 

....  When  the  hammer  was  raised  to  nail  the  left 
hand  of  Jesus  to  the  tree  Judas  shut  his  eyes  and  for  an 
eternity  neither  breathed,  nor  saw,  nor  lived,  only  listen 
ed.  But  now  iron  struck  iron  with  a  gnashing  sound, 
and  blow  after  blow  followed  blunt,  brief,  low.  One 
could  hear  the  sharp  nail  entering  the  soft  wood  distend 
ing  its  particles. 

One  hand.     It  is  not  yet  too  late. 
Another  hand.    It  is  not  yet  too  late. 
One  foot,  another.     Is  really  all  over?  Irresolutely 
he  opens  his  eyes  and  sees  the  cross  rise  unsteadily  and 
take  root  in  the  ditch.    He  sees  how  the  hands  of  Jesus 
convulse  under  the  strain,  extend  agonizingly,  how  the 
wounds   spread   and   suddenly   the   collapsing  abdomen 
sinks  below  the  ribs.  The  arms  stretch  and  stretch  and 
grow  thin  and  white,  they  twist  at  the  shoulders,  the 
wounds  under  the  nails  redden  and  expand ;  they  threat 
en  to  tear  in  an  instant.  .  But,  they  stop.  All  motion  has 
stopped.      Only   the   ribs   move   lightly,   raised   by   His 
deep  quick  breathing. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  117 

On  the  very  brow  of  the  Earth  rises  the  cross  and  on 
it  hangs  Jesus  crucified.  The  terror  and  the  dreams  of 
Judas  are  accomplished — he  rises  from  his  knees  (he 
had  been  kneeling  for  some  reason)  and  looks  around 
coldly.  Thus  may  look  some  stern  conqueror  having 
purposed  in  his  heart  to  visit  ruin  and  death  upon  all 
as  he  takes  one  last  look  on  the  wealthy  vanquished 
city,  still  living  and  noisy,  but  already  spectral  beneath 
the  cold  hand  of  death.  And  suddenly  as  clearly  as  his 
terrible  triumph  the  Iscariot  sees  its  ominous  frailty. 
What  if  they  realize?  It  is  not  yet  too  late.  Jesus  is 
still  living.  There  He  gazes  with  his  beckoning,  yearn 
ing  eyes. . . 

What  can  keep  from  tearing  the  thin  veil  that  covers 
the  eyes  of  the  people,  so  thin  that  it  almost  is  not? 
What  if  they  suddenly  comprehend?  What  if  they  move 
in  one  immense  throng  of  men,  women  and  children, 
silent,  without  shouting,  and  overwhelm  the  soldiers, 
drowning  them  in  their  own  blood,  root  out  the  accursed 
cross  and  the  hands  of  the  survivors  raise  aloft  upon 
the  brow  of  the  Earth  the  released  Jesus?  Hosannah! 
Hosannah ! 

Hosannah?  No.  Let  Judas  lie  down  on  the  ground, 
let  him  lie  down  and  bare  his  teeth  like  a  dog  and  watch 
and  wait  until  they  all  rise.  But  what  has  happened 
to  time?  Now  it  stops  and  one  longs  to  kick  it  onward, 
to  lash  it  like  a  lazy  ass,  now  it  rushes  on  madly  down 
hill,  cutting  off  one's  breath,  and  one  vainly  seeks  to 
steady  oneself.  There  Mary  Magdalene  is  weeping. 
There  weeps  the  mother  of  Jesus.  Let  them  weep.  As 
if  her  tears  meant  anything,  for  that  matter  the  tears 
of  all  the  mothers,  all  the  women  in  the  universe! 

"What  are  tears?"  asks  Judas  and  frenziedly  pushes 
onward  the  disobliging  time,  pummels  it  with  his  fists, 


118  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

curses  it  like  a  slave.  It  is  someone  else's,  that  is  why 
it  does  not  obey.  If  it  were  Judas!  but  it  belongs  to 
all  these  who  are  weeping,  laughing,  gossiping  as  if 
they  were  in  the  marketplace.  It  belongs  to  the  sun,  it 
belongs  to  the  cross  and  to  the  heart  of  Jesus  who  is 
dying  so  slowly. 

What  a  miserable  heart  is  that  of  Judas.  He  is 
holding  it  with  his  hands  but  it  shouts  Hosannah!  so 
loudly  that  all  will  soon  hear  it.  He  presses  it  tightly 
to  the  ground,  and  it  shouts  Hosannah !  Hosannah !  like 
a  poltroon  scattering  sacred  mysteries  in  the  street. 

Suddenly  a  loud  broken  cry. .  Dull  shouts,  a  hurried 
commotion  around  the  cross.  What  is  it?  Have  they 
comprehended? 

No,  Jesus  is  dying.  And  can  this  be?  Yes,  Jesus 
is  dying.  The  pale  arms  are  limp,  but  the  face,  the 
breast  and  the  legs  are  quivering  with  short  convulsions. 
And  can  this  be?  Yes,  He  is  dying.  The  breath  comes 
less  frequently.  Now  it  has  stopped.  No,  another  sigh, 
Jesus  is  still  upon  earth.  And  still  another?  No... 
No.  . .  No. . .  Jesus  is  dead. 

It  is  finished.    Hosannah  !    Hosannah  ! 


The  terror  and  the  dreams  are  accomplished.  Who 
will  snatch  the  victory  from  the  Iscariot's  hands?  It  is 
finished.  Let  all  nations,  as  many  as  there  be,  flock  to 
Golgotha  and  cry  out  with  their  millions  of  throats: 
Hosannah !  Hosannah !  let  them  pour  out  seas  of  blood 
and  tears  at  its  foot, — they  will  only  find  a  shameful 
cross  and  a  dead  Jesus. 

Calmly  and  coldly  Judas  scrutinizes  the  figure  of 
the  Dead,  resting  his  glance  an  instant  upon  the  cheek 
on  which  but  the  night  before  he  had  impressed  his  fare- 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  119 

well  kiss,  and  then  deliberately  walks  away.  Now  the 
whole  earth  belongs  to  him,  and  he  walks  firmly  like  a 
commander,  like  a  king,  like  He  who  in  this  universe  is 
so  infinitely  and  serenely  alone.  He  notes  the  mother 
of  Jesus  and  addresses  her  sternly: 

"Weepest  thou,  mother?  Weep,  weep,  and  a  long 
time  will  weep  with  thee  all  the  mothers  of  earth.  Un 
til  we  shall  return  together  with  Jesus  and  destroy 
death." 

What  is  he  saying?  Is  he  mad  or  merely  mocking? 
But  he  seems  serious  and  his  face  is  solemn,  and  his  eyes 
no  longer  scurry  about  with  insane  haste.  There  he 
stops  and  with  a  cold  scrutiny  views  the  earth,  so 
changed  and  small.  How  little  it  now  is,  and  he  feels 
the  whole  of  the  orb  beneath  his  feet.  He  looks  at  the 
little  hills  gently  blushing  under  the  last  rays  of  the 
sun,  and  he  feels  the  mountains  beneath  his  feet.  He 
gazes  on  the  sky  gaping  wide  with  its  azure  mouth,  he 
gazes  on  the  round  little  sun  futilely  striving  to  burn 
and  to  blind,  and  he  feels  the  sky  and  the  sun  beneath 
his  heel.  Infinitely  and  serenely  alone  he  has  proudly 
sensed  the  impotence  of  all  the  powers  that  are  at  work 
in  the  world  and  has  cast  them  all  down  into  the  abyss. 

And  he  walks  on  with  calm  and  masterful  steps. 
And  the  time  moves  neither  ahead  of  him  nor  in  the  rear : 
obediently  with  its  invisible  mass  it  keeps  pace  with 
him. 

It  is  finished. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Like  an  old  hypocrite,  coughing,  smiling  ingra 
tiatingly,  bowing  profusely,  Judas  of  Kerioth,  the 
Traitor,  appeared  before  the  Sanhedrim.  It  was  on 


120  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

the  day  following  the  murder  of  Jesus,  towards  noon. 
They  were  all  there,  His  judges  and  murderers,  the 
aged  Annas  with  his  sons,  those  accurate  and  repulsive 
copies  of  their  father,  and  Kaiapahs,  his  son-in-law, 
wormeaten  with  ambition,  and  other  members  of  the 
Sanhedrim,  who  had  stolen  their  names  from  the 
memory  of  the  people,  wealthy  and  renowned  Sad- 
ducees,  proud  of  their  power  and  their  knowledge  of 
the  law.  They  received  the  Traitor  in  silence  and  their 
haughty  faces  remained  unmoved  as  if  nothing  had 
entered  the  room.  And  even  the  very  least  among  them, 
a  nonentity  utterly  ignored  by  the  others,  raised  to  the 
ceiling  his  birdlike  features  and  looked  as  if  nothing 
had  entered.  Judas  bowed,  bowed  and  bowed,  but  they 
maintained  their  silence:  as  if  not  a  human  being  had 
entered,  but  some  unclean  and  unnoticeable  insect  had 
crept  into  their  midst.  But  Judas  of  Kerioth  was  not 
a  man  to  feel  embarrassed:  they  were  silent,  but  he  kept 
on  bowing  and  thought  that  if  he  had  to  keep  on  bowing 
until  night  he  would  do  so. 

At  last  the  impatient  Kaiaphas  inquired: 

"What  dost  thou  want?" 

Judas  bowed  once  more  and  modestly  replied: 

"It  is  I,  Judas  of  Kerioth,  who  betrayed  unto  you 
Jesus  of  Nazareth." 

"Well,  what  now?  Thou  hast  received  thy  reward. 
Go,"  commanded  Annas,  but  Judas  kept  on  bowing  as 
if  he  had  not  heard  the  command.  And  glancing  at  him 
Kaiaphas  inquired  of  Annas : 

"How  much  was  he  given?" 

"Thirty  pieces  of  silver." 

Kaiaphas  smiled  and  even  the  senile  Annas  smiled 
also.  A  merry  smile  flitted  over  all  the  haughty  faces: 


JUDAS  1SCARIOT  121 

and  he  of  the  birdlike  countenance  even  laughed.  Pal 
ing  perceptibly  Judas  broke  in : 

"Quite  so.  Quite  so.  Of  course,  a  very  small  sum, 
but  is  Judas  dissatisfied?  Does  Judas  cry  out  that  he 
was  robbed?  He  is  content.  Did  he  not  aid  a  sacred 
cause?  A  sacred  cause,  to  be  sure.  Do  not  the  wisest 
of  men  listen  now  to  Judas  of  Kerioth  and  think:  'He 
is  one  of  us,  Judas  of  Kerioth,  he  is  our  brother,  our 
friend,  Judas  of  Kerioth,  the  Traitor/  Does  not  Annas 
long  to  kneel  before  Judas  and  kiss  his  hand?  Only 
Judas  will  not  suffer  it,  for  he  is  a  coward,  he  fears  that 
Annas  might  bite." 

Kaiaphas  commanded: 

"Drive  this  dog  away.     Why  is  he  barking  here?" 

"Go  hence.  We  have  no  time  to  listen  to  thy  bab 
bling,"  indifferently  remarked  Annas. 

Judas  straightened  up  and  shut  his  eyes.  That 
hypocrisy  which  he  had  .so  lightly  borne  all  his  life  he 
felt  now  as  an  insupportable  burden,  and  with  one 
movement  of  his  eyelids  he  cast  it  off.  And  when  he 
looked  up  again  at  Annas  his  glance  was  frank  and 
straight  and  dreadful  in  its  naked  truthfulness.  But  they 
paid  no  attention  even  to  this. 

"Wouldst  thou  be  driven  out  with  rods?"  shouted 
Kaiaphas. 

Suffocating  with  the  burden  of  terrible  words  which 
he  sought  to  lift  higher  and  higher  as  if  to  cast  them 
down  upon  the  heads  of  the  judges  Judas  hoarsely  in 
quired  : 

"And  do  ye  know  who  He  was,  He  whom  ye  yes 
terday  condemned  and  crucified?" 

"We  know.  Go." 

With  one  word  he  will  now  tear  that  thin  veil  that 
clouds  their  eyes,  and  the  whole  earth  will  shake  with 


122  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

the  impact  of  the  merciless  truth.  They  had  souls — and 
they  will  lose  them.  They  had  life — and  they  will  be 
deprived  of  it.  Light  had  been  before  their  eyes — and 
eternal  gloom  and  terror  will  engulf  them. 

And  these  are  the  words  that  rend  the  speaker's 
throat : 

"He  was  not  a  deceiver.  He  was  innocent  and 
pure.  Hear  ye?  Judas  cheated  you.  Judas  betrayed 
unto  you  an  Innocent  One." 

He  waited  and  heard  the  indifferent  senile  quaver 
of  Annas:  "And  is  that  all  thou  wouldst  tell  us?" 

"Perhaps  ye  have  not  comprehended  me?"  Judas 
leplied  with  dignity,  all  color  fading  from  his  cheeks. 
"Judas  deceived  you.  You  have  killed  an  Innocent  One." 

One  of  the  judges,  a  man  with  a  birdlike  face, 
smiled,  but  Annas  was  unmoved.  Annas  was  bored, 
Annas  yawned.  And  Kaiaphas  joined  him  in  a  yawn 
and  wearily  remarked:  "I  was  told  of  the  great  mind  of 
Judas  of  Kerioth.  But  he  is  a  fool,  and  a  great  bore 
as  well  as  a  fool." 

"What?"  cried  Judas  shaken  through  and  through 
with  a  desperate  rage.  "And  are  ye  wise?  Judas  has 
deceived  you,  do  you  hear  me?  Not  Him  did  he  betray, 
but  you,  ye  wise  ones,  you,  ye  strong  ones,  he  betrayed 
unto  shameful  death  which  shall  not  end  in  eternity. 
Thirty  pieces  of  silver!  Yes.  Yes.  That  is  the  price  of 
your  own  blood,  blood  that  is  filthy  as  the  swill  which 
the  women  cast  out  from  the  gates  of  their  houses.  Oh 
Annas,  Annas,  aged,  grey-bearded,  stupid  Annas,  chok 
ing  with  law,  why  didst  thou  not  give  another  piece  of 
silver,  another  obolus?  For  at  that  price  thou  wilt  be 
rated  forever!" 

"Begone !"  shouted  Kaiaphas  trembling  with  wrath. 


JUDAS  ISCAR10T  123 

But  Annas  stopped  him  with  a  gesture  and  as  stolidly 
asked  Judas : 

"Is  this  all  now?" 

"If  I  shall  go  into  the  desert  and  cry  out  to  the 
wild  beasts :  'Beasts  of  the  desert,  have  ye  heard  the 
price  they  have  put  on  their  Jesus?'  What  will  the  wild 
beasts  do?  They  will  creep  out  of  their  lairs,  they  will 
howl  with  wrath ;  they  will  forget  the  fear  of  man  and 
they  will  rush  here  to  devour  you.  If  I  tell  unto  the 
sea:  'O  sea,  knowest  thou  the  price  they  have  put  upon 
their  Jesus?'  If  I  shall  tell  unto  the  mountains:  'Ye 
mountains,  know  ye  the  price  they  have  placed  upon 
their  Jesus?'  The  sea  and  the  mountains  will  leave  their 
places  appointed  unto  them  since  eternity  and  rush  to 
wards  you  and  fall  upon  your  heads." 

"Would  not  Judas  like  to  become  a  prophet?  He 
speaks  so  loudly,"  remarked  he  of  the  birdlike  face  mock 
ingly  and  ingratiatingly  peering  into  the  eyes  of 
Kaiaphas. 

"To-day  I  saw  a  pallid  sun.  It  looked  down  in 
terror  upon  this  earth  inquiring:  'Where,  O  where  is 
man?'  I  saw  to-day  a  scorpion.  He  sat  upon  a  rock 
and  laughing  inquired:  'Where,  O  where  is  man?'  I 
drew  nearer  and  glanced  into  his  eyes.  And  he  laughed 
and  repeated:  'Where,  O  where  is  man?'  Where,  oh, 
where  is  man?  Tell  me,  I  do  not  see.  Has  Judas  become 
blind,  poor  Judas  of  Kerioth?" 

And  the  Iscariot  wept  loudly.  And  in  that  moment 
he  resembled  a  madman.  Kaiaphas  turned  away  con 
temptuously,  but  Annas  thought  awhile  and  remarked: 

"I  see,  Judas,  that  thou  didst  really  receive  but  a 
small  reward,  and  this  evidently  agitates  thee.  Here 
is  more  money,  take  it  and  give  unto  thy  children." 

He  threw   something  that  jingled   abruptly.     And 


124  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

hardly  had  that  sound  died  when  another  oddly  re 
sembling  it  succeeded:  it  was  Judas  casting  handfuls  of 
silver  coins  and  oboli  into  the  faces  of  the  high  priest 
and  the  judges,  returning  his  reward  for  Jesus.  In  a 
crazy  shower  the  coins  flew  about,  striking  the  faces  of 
the  judges,  the  tables  and  scattering  on  the  floor.  Some 
of  the  judges  sought  to  shield  themselves  with  the  palms 
of  their  hands,  others  leaping  from  their  seats  shouted 
and  cursed.  Judas  aiming  at  Annas  threw  the  last  coin 
for  which  he  had  fished  a  long  time  with  his  trembling 
hand,  and  wrathfully  spitting  upon  the  floor  walked 
out. 

"Well.  Well,"  he  growled  passing  swiftly  through 
lanes  and  scaring  little  children.  "Methinks  thou  didst 
weep,  Judas,  hey?  Is  Kaiaphas  really  right  in  calling 
Judas  of  Kerioth  a  stupid  fool?  He  who  weepeth  in  the 
day  of  the  great  vengeance  is  not  worthy  of  it,  knowest 
thou  this,  Judas?  Do  not  let  thine  eyes  get  the  best  of 
thee,  do  not  let  thy  heart  play  false.  Do  not  put  out 
the  flames  with  thy  tears,  Judas  of  Kerioth." 

The  disciples  of  Jesus  sat  sadly  and  silently  anx 
iously  listening  to  the  sounds  outside.  There  was 
still  danger  that  the  vengeance  of  the  foes  of  Jesus 
would  not  content  itself  with  His  death,  and  they  all 
expected  the  intrusion  of  soldiers  and  perhaps  further 
executions.  Near  John,  who  as  the  favorite  disciple  of 
Jesus  felt  the  death  of  the  Teacher  most,  sat  Mary 
Magdalene  and  Matthew,  gently  comforted  him.  Mary, 
whose  face  was  swollen  with  weeping  softly  stroked  his 
luxuriant  wavy  hair,  while  Matthew  instructively  quoted 
the  words  of  Solomon : 

"He  that  is  longsuffering  is  better  than  the  mighty, 
and  he  that  ruleth  his  heart  than  he  that  taketh  a  city/' 

At  that  moment  loudly    banging  the  door    Judas 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  125 

Iscariot  entered  the  room.  They  leaped  to  their  feet 
in  terror  and  for  an  instant  failed  to  recognize  the  new 
comer,  but  when  they  observed  his  hateful  countenance 
and  the  redhaired  illshaped  head  they  raised  an  uproar. 
Peter  lifted  up  his  hands  and  cried  out: 

"Begone,  Traitor,  begone  lest  I  kill  thee." 

But  scanning  the  face  and  the  eyes  of  the  Traitor 
they  lapsed  into  silence,  whispering  with  awe: 

"Leave  him.  Leave  him.  Satan  has  entered  his 
body." 

Taking  advantage  of  the  silence  Judas  exclaimed: 

"Rejoice,  rejoice,  ye  eyes  of  Judas  the  Iscariot.  Ye 
have  just  seen  the  coldblooded  murderers,  and  now  ye 
behold  the  cowardly  traitors.  Where  is  Jesus?  I  ask  of 
you,  where  is  Jesus?" 

There  was  something  commanding  in  the  hoarse 
voice  of  the  Iscariot  and  Thomas  meekly  replied: 

"Thou  knowest,  Judas,  that  our  Teacher  was  cruci 
fied  yesterday." 

"How  did  you  suffer  it?  Where  was  your  love? 
Thou,  beloved  disciple,  thou,  O  Rock,  where  were  ye 
when  they  crucified  your  friend  upon  the  tree?" 

"But  what  could  we  do,  judge  thyself?"  replied 
Tfcomas  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"Thou  askest  this,  Thomas?  Well,  well,"  replied 
Judas  craning  his  head  and  suddenly  he  broke  out  with 
vehemence:  "He  who  loves  asks  not  what  to  do.  He 
goes  and  does  all.  He  weeps,  he  snaps,  he  strangles 
his  foe,  he  breaks  his  limbs.  He  who  loves!  When  thy 
son  is  drowning,  goest  thou  into  the  marketplace  and 
askest  the  passer-by:  'What  am  I  to  do?  My  son  is 
drowning.  Dost  thou  not  leap  into  the  water  and  drown 
with  the  son  together?  He  who  loves!" 


126  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

Peter  sullenly  replied  to  the  frenzied  harangue  of 
Judas : 

"I  unsheathed  the  sword  but  He  himself  bade  me 
put  it  up." 

"He  bade  thee?  And  thou  didst  obey?"  laughed  the 
Iscariot.  "Peter,  Peter,  was  it  meet  to  obey  Him?  Does 
He  understand  aught  of  men  and  of  fighting?" 

"He  who  disobeys  Him  will  go  down  to  the  Gehenna 
of  fire." 

"Then  why  didst  thou  not  go?  Why  didst  thou  not 
go,  Peter?  Gehenna  of  fire,  indeed,  what  is  Gehenna? 
And  why  didst  thou  not  go?  Why  hast  thou  a  soul  if 
thou  darest  not  throw  it  into  the  fire  at  will?" 

"Silence,  He  himself  desired  this  sacrifice,"  ex 
claimed  John  rising  to  his  feet.  "And  His  sacrifice  was 
beautiful." 

"Is  there  a  beautiful  sacrifice?  What  sayest  thou, 
beloved  disciple?  Where  there  is  a  sacrifice,  there  is 
the  slayer  and  the  betrayer  also.  Sacrifice  is  suffering 
for  one  and  shame  for  the  others.  Traitors,  traitors, 
what  have  ye  done  with  this  earth?  They  are  gazing 
upon  this  earth  from  above  and  from  below  with  deri 
sion,  saying:  'Look  at  this  earth,  on  it  they  crucified 
Jesus/  And  they  spit  upon  it  even  as  I  do." 

Judas  spat  wrathfully. 

"He  took  upon  Himself  the  sins  of  all  mankind.  His 
sacrifice  is  beautiful,"  insisted  John. 

"Nay,  but  ye  upon  yourselves  have  taken  all  sin. 
Beloved  disciple!  Will  there  not  net  spring  up  from 
thee  a  race  of  traitors,  a  brood  of  little-souled  liars?  Ye 
blinded  men,  what  have  ye  done  with  this  earth?  Ye 
compassed  about  to  destroy  it.  You  will  soon  kiss  the 
cross  whereon  ye  crucified  Jesus.  Yes,  indeed,  you  will 
kiss  the  cross,  Judas  promises  you  that." 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  127 

"Judas,  do  riot  blaspheme,"  roared  Peter  flushing. 
"How  could  we  kill  all  his  foes?  There  were  so  many 
of  them." 

"And  thou,  Peter,"  angrily  retorted  John.  "Dost 
thou  not  see  that  he  is  possessed  of  Satan.  Get  thee 
hence,  tempter.  Thou  art  full  of  lies.  The  Teacher  com 
manded  not  to  slay." 

"But  did  He  forbid  you  to  die?  Why  are  ye  living 
whereas  He  is  dead?  Why  do  your  legs  walk,  your 
tongues  utter  folly,  your  eyes  wink,  whereas  He  is  dead, 
immovable,  voiceless?  How  dare  thy  cheeks  be  red, 
John,  whereas  His  are  pale?  How  darest  thou  shout, 
Peter,  whereas  He  is  silent?  What  ye  should  have  done, 
ye  ask  of  Judas?  And  Judas  replies  to  you,  beautiful, 
daring  Judas  of  Kerioth :  ye  should  have  died.  Ye  should 
have  fallen  on  the  way,  clutching  the  soldiers'  swords 
and  hands.  Ye  should  have  drowned  them  in  a  sea  of 
\our  own  blood;  ye  should  have  died,  died.  His  very 
Father  should  have  called  out  with  dread  if  ye  all  had 
entered." 

Judas  paused,  raised  his  hand,  and  suddenly  noticed 
on  the  table  the  remains  of  a  meal.  And  with  a  queer 
amazement,  curiously,  as  if  he  were  looking  at  food 
for  the  first  time,  he  closely  scrutinized  it  and  slowly 
inquired:  "What  is  this?  Ye  have  eaten?  Perhaps  slept 
also?" 

"I  have  slept,"  curtly  replied  Peter,  dropping  his 
head,  scenting  already  in  Judas'  manner  a  tone  of  com 
mand.  "I  have  slept  and  eaten." 

Thomas  resolutely  and  firmly  interposed:  "This  is 
all  wrong,  Judas.  Think :  if  we  had  all  died,  who  would 
have  been  left  to  tell  about  Jesus?  Who  would  carry 
the  teachings  of  Jesus  to  the  people,  if  all  of  us  had 
died,  John  and  Peter  and  I?" 


128  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

"And  what  is  truth  in  the  lips  of  traitors?  Does 
it  not  turn  to  falsehood?  Thomas,  Thomas,  dost  thou 
not  understand  that  thou  art  now  a  watchman  at  the 
grave  of  dead  truth?  The  watchman  falleth  asleep,  a 
thief  cometh  and  carrieth  away  the  truth — tell  me  where 
is  the  truth?  Be  thou  accursed,  Thomas!  Fruitless  and 
beggarly  wilt  thou  be  forever,  and  ye  are  accursed  with 
Him." 

"Be  thou  thyself  accursed,  Satan,"  retorted  John, 
and  his  words  were  repeated  by  James  and  Matthew  and 
all  the  other  disciples.  Peter  alone  was  silent. 

"I  go  to  Him!"  said  Judas  raising  aloft  his  master 
ful  hand.  "Who  will  follow  the  Iscariot  to  Jesus?" 

"I !  I !  I  am  with  thee,"  cried  Peter  rising.  But  John 
and  the  others  stopped  him  with  terror,  saying:  "Mad 
man,  dost  thou  forget  that  he  betrayed  our  Teacher  into 
the  hands  of  His  enemies?" 

Peter  smote  his  breast  with  his  fist  and  wept  bitter- 

iy- 

"Whither  shall  I  go,  Lord?  O  Lord,  whither?" 
*     *     * 

Long  ago,  during  his  solitary  rambles,  Judas  had 
picked  out  the  spot  whereon  he  intended  to  kill  himself 
after  the  death  of  Jesus.  It  was  on  the  side  of  the  moun 
tain,  high  over  Jerusalem,  and  only  one  tree  was  growing 
there,  twisted  all  out  of  shape,  knocked  about  by  the 
wind  which  tore  at  it  from  all  sides  and  half-withered. 
One  of  its  gnarled  and  leafbare  branches  it  stretched 
cut  over  Jerusalem  as  though  blessing  the  city  or  perhaps 
threatening  it,  and  this  one  Judas  selected  whereon  to 
fasten  his  noose.  But  the  path  to  the  tree  was  long  and 
difficult,  and  Judas  of  Kerioth  was  very  tired.  Still  the 
same  sharp  little  stones  rolled  from  under  his  feet  as  if 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  129 

dragging  him  back,  and  the  mountain  was  high,  wind 
swept  and  gloomy.  And  Judas  sat  down  for  a  rest  sev 
eral  times,  breathing  heavily,  while  from  the  back 
through  the  crevic -s  there  swept  over  him  the  chilling 
breath  of  the  mountain. 

"Thou  too,  accursed  hill,"  contemptuously  muttered 
Judas  and  breathing  heavily  he  shook  his  benumbed  head 
wherein  all  thoughts  had  turned  to  stone.  Then  sud 
denly  he  raised  it,  opening  wide  his  chilled  eyes  and 
wrathfully  growled: 

"No,  they  are  too  bad  altogether  for  Judas.  Hearest 
thou,  Jesus?  Now  wilt  thou  believe  me?  I  am  coming. 
Meet  me  kindly,  for  I  am  weary.  I  am  very  weary. 
Then  together,  with  a  brother's  embrace,  we  shall  re 
turn  to  this  earth.  Is  it  well?" 

And  again  opening  wide  his  eyes  he  murmured : 
"But  perhaps  even  there  thou  wilt  be  angry  with 
Judas  of  Kerioth?  And  perhaps  thou  wilt  not  believe? 
And  peradventure,  thou  wilt  send  me  to  hell?  Well, 
what  then?  I  shall  go  to  hell.  And  in  the  flames  of 
thy  hell  I  shall  forge  the  iron  to  wreck  thy  heaven. 
Well?  Wilt  thou  believe  me  then?  Wilt  thou  then  go 
back  with  me  to  this  earth,  O  Jesus?" 

Finally  Judas  reached  the  top  of  the  mountain 
and  the  gnarled  tree  and  here  the  wind  commenced  to 
torture  him.  But  when  Judas  had  chided  it  it  began  to 
whistle  soft  and  low;  the  wind  started  off  in  another 
direction  and  was  bidding  him  farewell. 

"Well,  well.  But  those  others  are  curs,"  responded 
Judas  making  a  noose.  And  as  the  rope  might  play  him 
false  and  break  he  hung  it  over  the  abyss, — if  it  did  break 
he  would  still  find  his  death  upon  the  rocks.  And  before 
pushing  himself  away  from  the  edge  and  hanging  him- 


130  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

self  over  the  precipice,  Judas  once  more  carefully  ad 
monished  Jesus: 

"But  Thou  meet  me  kindly,  for  I  am  very  weary, 
Jesus." 

And  he  leaped.  The  rope  stretched  to  its  limit,  but 
sustained  the  weight.  The  neck  of  Judas  grew  thin, 
while  his  hands  and  legs  folded  .and  hung  down  limply 
as  if  wet.  He  died.  Thus  within  two  days,  one  after 
the  other,  departed  from  this  earth  Jesus  of  Nazareth 
and  Judas  of  Kerioth,  the  Traitor. 

All  night  like  some  hideous  fruit  the  body  of  Judas 
swung  over  Jerusalem;  and  the  wind  turned  his  face 
now  towards  the  city  now  to  the  desert.  But  whichever 
way  his  death-marred  face  turned,  its  red  and  bloodshot 
eyes,  both  of  which  were  now  alike,  like  brothers,  reso 
lutely  gazed  upon  the  sky.  Towards  morning  some 
observant  one  noticed  Judas  suspended  over  the  city 
and  cried  out  in  terror.  Men  came  and  took  him  down, 
but  learning  his  identity  threw  him  into  a  deep  ravine 
where  they  cast  the  carcases  of  horses,  dogs,  cats  and 
other  carrion. 

That  same  night  al/ believers  learned  of  the  terrible 
death  of  the  Traitor,  and  the  next  day  all  Jerusalem  knew 
it.  Rocky  Judea  heard  it,  and  green-clad  Galilee  too; 
and  from  one  sea  even  to  another  more  distant  one  the 
news  of  the  death  of  the  Traitor  was  carried.^  Not  swifter 
nor  slower  than  the  passing  of  time,  but  step  by  step 
with  it,  the  message  spread;  and  as  there  is  no  end  to 
time  there  will  be  no  end  to  the  stories  of  Judas'  be 
trayal  and  his  terrible  death.  And  all — the  good  and  the 
bad  alike — will  curse  his  shameful  memory,  and  among 
all  nations,  as  many  as  there  are  or  will  ever  be,  he  will 
remain  alone  in  his  cruel  fate — Judas  of  Kerioth,  the 
Traitor. 


LAZARUS. 


133 


CHAPTER   I. 

When  Lazarus  emerged  from  the  grave  wherein 
for  the  space  of  three  days  and  three  nights  he  had  dwelt 
under  the  mysterious  dominion  of  death,  and  returned 
living  to  his  abode,  the  ominous  peculiarities  which 
later  made  his  very  name  a  thing  of  dread  remained  for 
a  long  time  unnoticed. 

Rejoicing  in  his  return  to  life,  his  friends  and  neigh 
bors  overwhelmed  hirn  with  caresses  and  they  satisfied 
their  eager  interest  by  ministering  to  him  and  caring  for 
his  food,  his  drink  and  his  raiment.  They  clothed  him 
in  rich  attire,  bright  with  the  hues  of  hope  and  merri 
ment,  and  when  he  sat  among  them  once  more,  arrayed 
like  the  bridegroom  in  his  wedding  garmets,  and  ate 
and  drank  once  more,  they  wept  for  joy  and  summoned 
the  neighbors  to  view  him,  who  had  so  miraculously 
risen  from  the  dead.  The  neighbors  came  and  rejoiced; 
strangers  too  came  from  distant  cities  and  villages  and 
in  accents  of  tumultuous  praise  voiced  their  homage  to 
the  miracle — the  house  of  Mary  and  Martha  hummed 
like  a  beehive. 

All  that  seemed  novel  in  the  features  of  Lazarus  and 
in  his  demeanor  they  explained  as  natural  traces  of  his 
serious  illness  and  the  shock  through  which  he  had  pass 
ed.  It  was  manifest  that  the  destructive  effect  of  Death 
upon  the  corpse  had  been  merely  arrested  by  the  mirac- 
uluous  power,  but  not  altogether  undone.  And  what 
the  hand  of  Death  had  already  accomplished  upon  the 
face  and  the  body  of  Lazarus  was  like  an  artist's  un- 


134  LAZARUS 

finished  sketch  covered  by  a  thin  film.  A  deep  earthy 
bluish  pallor  rested  on  the  temples  of  Lazarus,  below  his 
eyes  and  on  his  hollow  cheeks;  his  lanky  fingers  were 
of  the  same  earthy  blue  and  his  nails,  which  had  grown 
long  during  his  sojourn  in  the  grave  had  turned  livid. 
Here  and  there,  on  the  lips  and  elsewhere,  his  skin, 
swollen  in  the  grave,  had  cracked  open  and  was  covered 
by  a  fine  reddish  fllm  that  glistened  like  transparent  slime. 
And  he  had  grown  very  fat.  His  body,  inflated  in  the 
grave,  retained  that  ominous  obesity  beneath  which  one 
scents  the  putrid  sap  of  dissolution.  But  the  cadaverous 
and  fetid  odor  which  had  permeated  the  burial  robes 
of  Lazarus,  and  seemingly  his  very  body,  soon  dis 
appeared  completely;  in  the  course  of  weeks  even  the 
bluish  tint  of  his  hands  and  of  his  countenance  faded,  and 
time  also  smoothed  out  the  reddish  blisters  though  they 
never  vanished  altogether.  Such  was  the  appearance 
of  Lazarus  as  he  faced  the  world  in  this  his  second 
life.  To  those  who  had  seen  him  buried  it  seemed  per 
fectly  natural. 

The  manner  of  Lazarus  also  had  undergone  a 
change,  but  this  circumstance  surprised  no  one  and 
failed  to  attract  due  attention.  Until  his  death  Lazarus 
had  always  been  care  free  and  merry.  He  had  loved 
laughter  and  harmless  jests.  It  was  this  agreeable 
and  merry  disposition,  free  from  malice  and  gloom, 
that  had  made  him  so  well  beloved  by  the  Teacher. 
But  now  he  was  grave  and  silent.  He  neither  jested 
himself  nor  responded  with  an  approving  smile  to 
the  jests  of  others:  and  the  words  which  he  uttered 
on  rare  occasions  were  the  simplest,  most  common 
place  and  indispensable  words,  as  bare  of  a  pro- 
founder  meaning  as  the  sounds  with  which  animals 
express  pain  or  pleasure,  thirst  and  hunger.  Such 


LAZARUS  135 

words  a  man  may  speak  all  his  life  and  none  would  ever 
learn  what  grieved  or  pleased  him  in  the  depths  of 
his  soul. 

Thus  he  sat  with  the  face  of  a  corpse  over  which 
for  the  space  of  three  days  the  hand  of  death  had  held 
sway  in  the  gloom  of  the  grave, — arrayed  in  solemn 
wedding  garments  that  glistened  with  ruddy  gold  and 
blood-red  crimson ;  dull  and  silent,  ominously  trans 
formed  and  uncanny,  but  still  undiscovered  in  his  new 
character,  he  sat  at  the  festive  board  among  his  banquet 
ing  friends  and  neighbors.  Now  tenderly,  now  tempestu 
ously  the  waves  of  rejoicing  surged  around  him;  fervent 
ly  affectionate  glances  feasted  upon  his  face  that  was 
still  numb,  with  the  chill  of  the  grave;  the  warm  hand 
of  a  friend  caressed  his  blue  tipped  leaden  fingers.  The 
music  played.  They  had  summoned  musicians  to  play 
merry  tunes:  the  cymbal,  the  pipe,  the  lute  and  the  tim 
brel.  And  it  sounded  like  the  humming  of  bees,  like  the 
chirping  of  crickets,  like  the  singing  of  birds,  this  re 
joicing  in  the  house  of  Mary  and  Martha. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  reckless  one  lifted  the  veil.  A  reckless  one,  with 
one  breath  of  a  fleeting  word,  destroyed  the  sweet 
dreams  and  revealed  the  truth  in  its  hideous  naked 
ness.  The  thought  was  not  yet 'clear  in  the  questioner's 
head  when  his  lips,  parting. ia  a  smile^  inquired:, 

"Why  don't  you  tell  u's,  Lazarus,  what  was  There?" 

And  they  all  paused,  amazed  at  the  query,  as  though 

they  had  just  realized  that  Lazarus  had  been  dead  three 

days,  and  they  glanced  up  curiously  awaiting  the  answer. 

But  Lazarus  was  silent. 


136  LAZARUS 

"Will  you  not  tell  us?"  questioned  the  curious  one 
"Was  is  so  dreadful  There?" 

And  again  the  thought  failed  to  keep  pace  with 
the  words:  if  it  had  kept  abreast  with  them  the  ques 
tion  would  not  have  been  put,  for  it  gripped  in  the  next 
instant  the  questioner's  own  heart  with  fear  unutter 
able.  And  they  were  all  perturbed,  they  waited  eagerly 
for  the  reply  of  Lazarus ;  but  he  was  dumb,  looking  cold 
and  stern  and  downcast.  And  then  they  noted  anew, 
?s  though  for  the  first  time,  the  dreadful  bluish  pallor 
of  his  countenance  and  his  hideous  obesity;  his  livid 
hand  still  reposed  on  the  table  as  though  forgotten  there. 
All  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  hand  in  a  strange  fascina 
tion  as  though  expecting  that  it  might  give  the  craved 
reply.  The  musicians  had  still  been  playing,  but  lo !  now 
the  silence  reached  them  too,  like  a  rivulet  which  reaches 
and  quenches  the  scattered  coals,  and  smothered  were 
the  sounds  of  merriment.  The  pipes  were  mute;  the 
high-sounding  cymbal  and  the  melodious  timbrel  were 
silent;  with  the  sound  of  a  breaking  chord,  as  though 
song  itself  were  dying,  tremulously,  brokenly  groaned 
the  lute;  and  all  was  still. 

"Thou  wilt  not?"  repeated  the  questioner  unable 
to  repress  his  prating  tongue.  Silence  reigned  and  the 
bluish  hand  reposed  on  the  table  and  did  not  stir.  Then 
it  moved  a  little,  and  all  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and 
lifted  their  eyes :  Lazarus,  the  risen,  was  gazing  straight 
into  their  faces  with  a  glance  that  took  in  all, — stolid 
and  gruesome. 

This  was  on  the  third  day  after  he  had  emerged 
from  his  grave.  Since  then  many  had  tested  the  per 
nicious  power  of  his  gaze,  but  neither  those  whom  it 
wrecked  forever,  nor  those  who  in  the  primal  sources 


LAZARUS  137 

of  life  that  are  as  mysterious  as  death  itself  found  force 
to  resist,  could  ever  explain  the  nature  of  that  dread 
ful,  that  invisible  something  which  reposed  in  the 
depths  of  his  black  pupils.  Lazarus  looked 
world  clamly  and  frankly  without  seeking  to  hid( 
thing,  without  any  thought  of  revealing  anything; 
gaze  was  as  cold  as  the  glance  of  one  infinitely 
ferent  to  all  things  living.  Many  thoughtless  people 
jostled  him  in  the  street  failing  to  recognize  him,  and 
only  later  learned  the  identity  of  that  quiet  corpulent  man 
the  edge  of  whose  gaudy  and  festive  apparel  had  brushed 
against  them.  The  sun  shone  as  brightly  as  ever,  the 
fountains  murmured  their  song,  and  the  native  sky  re 
mained  as  cloudless  and  azure  as  before,  but  those  who 
had  fallen  under  the  sway  of  that  mysterious  glance 
neither  felt  the  glow  of  the  sun,  nor  heard  the  fountain 
nor  recognized  the  sky.  Some  of  these  wept  bitterly,  others 
tore  their  hair  in  despair  and  madly  called  to  their 
friends  for  help,  but  mostly  it  happened  that  they  began 
to  die,  languidly,  without  a  struggle,  drooping  for  many 
weary  years,  pining  away  under  the  eyes  of  their  friends, 
fading,  withering,  listless  like  a  tree  drying  up  silently 
on  rocky  ground.  And  the  first,  who  cried  and  stormed, 
came  sometimes  back  to  life,  but  the  others — never. 

"Then  thou  wilt  not  tell  us,  Lazarus,  what  thou 
hast  seen  There?"  for  the  third  time  repeated  the  in 
sistent  inquirer.  But  now  his  voice  was  dull  and  weary, 
and  deathly  grey  languor  looked  from  his  eyes.  And 
the  same  deathly  dull  languor  hid  the  faces  of  the  others 
like  a  veil  of  dust:  they  exchanged  glances  of  dreary 
wonderment  as  though  at  a  loss  to  grasp  why  they  had 
met  around  the  richly  laden  table.  The  conversation  lag 
ged.  The  guests  began  to  feel  vaguely  that  it  was 
time  to  go  home,  but  they  were  too  weak  to  overcome 


13S  LAZARUS 

the  viscous  and  paralyzing  listlessness  that  had  robbed 
their  muscles  of  strength,  and  they  kept  their  seats, 
each  for  himself,  isolated  like  dimly  flickering  lights 
scattered  about  the  field  in  the  darkness  of  night. 

But  the  musicians  were  paid  to  play,  and  once  more 
they  took  up  their  instruments  and  the  air  was  filled 
with  the  sounds  of  music:  but  the  notes,  both  merry 
and  mournful,  sounded  mechanical  and  forced.  The 
same  familiar  melody  was  unrolled  before  the  ears  of 
the  guests,  but  the  latter  listened  in  wonderment:  they 
could  not  understand  why  people  found  it  necessary  or 
amusing  to  have  others  pull  at  tightly  drawn  strings 
or  whistle  with  inflated  cheeks  through  thin  reeds  to 
produce  the  oddly  discordant  noises. 

"How  badly  they  play!"  someone  said. 

The  musicians  felt  hurt  and  departed.  One  after 
/another  the  guests  left  too,  for  the  night  had  already 
fallen.  And  when  the  calm  of  night  surrounded  them, 
and  they  had  begun  to  breathe  at  ease  there  rose  be 
fore  each  one  of  them  the  image  of  Lazarus:  the  blue 
cadaverous  face,  the  wedding  garments,  gaudy  and  sump 
tuous,  and  the  frigid  stare  in  the  depths  of  which  had 
congealed  the  Horrible.  As  though,  turned  to  stone  they 
stood  in  different  corners,  and  darkness  enveloped  them ; 
and  in  that  darkness  more  and  more  vividly  burned  the 
dreadful  vision  of  him  who  for  three  days  and  for  three 
nights  had  been  under  the  mysterious  spell  of  Death. 
Three  days  he  had  been  dead;  three  times  the  sun  rose 
and  set,  and  he  was  dead ;  the  children  played,  the  brooks 
coursed  babbling  over  the  stones,  the  biting  dust  swept 
ever  the  highway, — but  he  was  dead.  And  now  he  was 
again  among  the  living— touching  them,  looking  at  the;m 
—LOOKING  at  them!  and  from  the  black  orbs  of  his 


LAZARUS  139 

pupils,  as  through  a  dark  glass,  there  gazed  upon  the 
people   the   inscrutable   Beyond. 

CHAPTER  III 

No  one  took  care  of  Lazarus;  he  had  retained  no 
neighbors  or  friends,  and  the  great  desert  which  en 
chained  the  Holy  City  had  encroached  to  the  very 
threshold  of  his  dwelling.  And  it  entered  his  house, 
made  itself  broad  on  his  couch,  like  a  spouse,  and 
quenched  the  fire  in  his  hearth.  One  after  the  other 
his  sisters,  Mary  and  Martha,  forsook  him;  for  a  long 
time  Martha  had  loathed  to  leave  him,  not  knowing  who 
would  feed  him  and  comfort  him ;  she  wept  and  prayed. 

But  one  night  when  the  wind  swept  over  the  desert 
and  whistled  through  the  tops  of  the  cypress  trees  bend 
ing  them  over  the  roof  of  his  hut,  she  quietly  dressed 
and  quietly  went  out  into  the  darkness.  Lazarus  might 
have  heard  the  slamming  door,  he  might  have  heard  it 
banging  against  the  doorposts  as  it  failed  to  shut  tight 
ly.  But  he  did  not  rise,  he  did  not  step  out,  he  did  not 
investigate.  And  all  through  the  night  until  the  morn 
the  cypress  trees  rustled  overhead,  and  the  door  pite- 
ously  knocked  against  the  posts  letting  in  the  cold, 
the  greedy,  the  insistent  desert. 

He  was  shunned  as  a  leper,  and  as  a  leper  they  al 
most  forced  him  to  wear  a  bell  around  his  neck  in  order 
to  warn  the  people  of  his  approach,  but  someone,  with 
blanching  cheek,  suggested  how  dreadful  it  would  be 
to  hear  the  bell  of  Lazarus  in  the  dead  of  night  outside 
the  windows, — and  with  blanching  cheeks  the  people 
agreed  with  him. 

And  as  he  did  nothing  for  himself,  he  would  prob 
ably  have  starved  had  not  his  neighbors,  impelled  by  a 


140  LAZARUS 

strange  fear,  saved  some  food  for  him.  Children  car 
ried  it  to  him.  They  did  not  fear  him,  neither  did  they 
mock  him,  as,  with  innocent  cruelty,  they  often  laugh 
at  unfortunate  beings.  They  were  indifferent  to  him, 
and  Lazarus  evinced  the  same  indifference  toward  them. 
Given  over  to  the  ravages  of  time  and  the  encroach 
ments  of  the  desert,  his  house  was  falling  to  wreck  and 
ruin,  and  his  flock  of  goats,  bleating  and  hungry,  had 
a  long  time  since  scattered  among  his  neighbors.  His 
wedding  garments  too  had  grown  old.  Just  as  he  had  don 
ned  them  on  that  happy  day  when  the  musicians  played 
he  had  worn  them  ever  since,  without  change,  as  though 
unable  to  see  the  difference  between  the  new  and  the 
old,  the  torn  and  the  whole.  The  bright  colors  had 
faded  and  paled;  the  wicked  dogs  of  the  city  and  the 
sharp  thorns  of  the  desert  had  rent  the  delicate  fabric 
into  shreds. 

In  the  day  time  when  the  merciless  sun  consumed 
all  that  was  living,  and  the  very  scorpions  sought  refuge 
under  the  stones  writhing  with  a  frenzied  desire  to 
sting  he  sat  unmoved  beneath  the  burning  rays,  hold 
ing  aloft  his  blue  streaked  face  and  shaggy  wild  beard. 

While  yet  the  peole  stopped  to  talk  to  him,  some 
one  once  inquired: 

"Poor  Lazarus,  it  evidently  pleases  thee  to  sit  and 
look  upon  the  sun?"  and  he  replied: 

"Yes.     It  pleases  me." 

So  severe  must  have  been  the  cold  of  those  three 
days  in  the  grave,  so  dense  its  gloom,  that  there  was 
not  any  heat  nor  any  light  upon  earth  strong  enough  to 
warm  Lazarus,  bright  enough  to  illumine  the  darkness 
of  his  eyes, — thus  thought  the  curious  as  they  departed 
sighing. 

And  when  the  sun's  luridly  crimson  disc  descended  to 


LAZARUS  141 

earth  Lazarus  retired  into  the  desert  and  walked  straight 
towards  the  sun  as  though  striving  to  catch  up  with 
it.  Always  he  walked  straight  towards  the  sun,  and 
those  who  tried  to  follow  him  in  order  to  learn  what 
he  did  at  night  in  the  desert  had  indelibly  impressed 
on  their  memory  the  black  silhouette  of  a  tall  and 
corpulent  man  against  the  crimson  back-ground  of  the 
mighty  orb.  The  night  with  its  terrors  drove  them 
back,  and  they  never  learned  wrhat  Lazarus  was  doing 
in  the  desert,  but  the  image  of  the  black  shadow  on  a 
crimson  background  burned  itself  on  their  brain  and 
refused  to  leave  them.  Like  an  animal  frenziedly  rub 
bing  its  eyes  to  remove  a  cinder  they  stupidly  rubbed 
their  eyes,  but  the  impression  left  by  Lazarus  was  not 
to  be  blotted  out,  and  death  alone  granted  oblivion. 

But  there  were  people  afar  off  who  had  never  seen 
Lazarus,  having  merely  heard  rumors  of  him.  These 
with  a  daring  curiosity  that  is  stronger  than  fear  and 
feeds  on  fear,  with  a  secret  sneer  in  their  hearts,  ven 
tured  to  approach  him  as  he  basked  in  the  sun,  and  en 
gaged  in  conversation  with  him.  By  this  time  the  ap 
pearance  of  Lazarus  had  somewhat  changed  for  the  bet 
ter,  and  he  no  longer  looked  so  terrifying.  And  in  the 
first  moment  they  snapped  their  fingers  and  thought  dis 
approvingly  of  the  folly  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Holy 
City.  And  when  their  short  conversation  was  over,  they 
wended  their  way  home,  but  their  appearance  was  such 
that  the  inhabitants  of  the  Holy  City  at  once  recognized 
them  saying: 

"There  goes  another  madman  upon  whom  Lazarus 
has  cast  his  glance,"  and  they  paused  raising  their  hands 
with  compassion. 

Brave  wrarriors  came  rattling  their  arms,  men  who 
knew  no  fear;  with  laughter  and  songs  came  happy 


142  LAZARUS 

hearted  youths;  careworn  traders,  jingling  their  coins, 
ran  in  for  a  moment ;  and  the  haughty  temple  attendants 
left  their  staffs  at  the  door  of  Lazarus, — but  none  re 
turned  the  same  as  he  had  come.  The  same  horrible 
pall  sank  upon  their  souls  and  imparted  a  novel  appear 
ance  to  the  old  familiar  world. 

Those  who  still  felt  like  talking  thus  described  their 
impressions. 

"All  objects  visible  to  the  eye  and  sensible  to  the 
touch  became  empty,  light  and  diaphanous  like  unto 
luminous  shadows  flitting  through  the  gloom." 

"A  great  darkness  enveloped  the  universe ;  and  was 
not  dispelled  by  the  sun,  the  moon  or  the  stars,  but  en 
shrouded  the  earth  with  a  boundless  black  pall,  embrac 
ing  it  like  a  mother." 

"It  penetrated  all  objects,  even  iron  and  stone,  and 
the  particles  thereof  lost  their  union  and  became  lonely ; 
it  penetrated  even  into  the  hearts  of  the  particles  unto 
the  severing  of  the  very  atoms." 

"For  the  great  void  that  surrounds  the  universe  was 
not  filled  by  things  visible,  by  sun,  moon  or  stars,  but 
shoreless  it  stretched  penetrating  all  things,  severing 
all  things,  body  from  body,  particle  from  particle." 

"In  emptiness  the  trees  spread  out  their  roots  and 
the  very  trees  seemed  empty." 

"In  emptiness  tottering  to  a  phantom  ruin,  and 
empty  t  hemselves,  rose  ghostly  temples,  palaces  and 
houses." 

"And  in  that  waste  Man  moved  restlessly,  and  he 
too  was  empty  and  light  like  unto  a  shadow." 

"For  there  was  no  more  time,  and  the  beginning  of 
all  things  and  the  end  thereof  met  face  to  face." 

"The  sound  of  the  builders'  hammers  was  still  heard 
as  they  reared  the  edifice,  but  its  downfall  could  be 


LAZARUS  143 

seen  already,  and  behold,  emptiness  soon  yawned  over 
the  ruins." 

"Hardly  a  man  was  born,  before  funeral  tapers 
gleamed  at  his  bier;  these  barely  flickered  an  instant, 
and  emptiness  reigned  in  the  place  of  the  Man,  the  fu 
neral  tapers  and  the  bier." 

"In  the  embrace  of  Gloo'm  and  Waste ;  Man  trembled 
hopelessly  with  the  dread  of  the  Infinite/' 

Thus  spoke  those  who  had  still  a  desire  to  speak. 
But  those  who  would  not  speak  and  died  in  silence  could 
have  probably  told  much  more. 


IV. 


At  that  time  there  lived  in  Rome  a  celebrated  sculp 
tor.  Out  of  clay,  marble  and  bronze  he  fashioned  the 
forms  of  gods  and  of  men,  and  such  was  the  beauty  of 
his  work  that  men  proclaimed  it  immortal.  But  the 
sculptor  himself  was  dissatisfied  with  it  and  claimed 
that  there  was  something  else  to  strive  for,  a  beauty 
that  was  truly  supreme,  such  as  he  had  never  yet  been 
able  to  fix  in  marble  or  bronze.  "I  have  not  yet  garn 
ered  the  splendor  of  the  moon,"  he  was  wont  to  say. 
"I  have  not  yet  caught  the  radiance  of  the  sun.  My 
marble  lacks  soul,  my  beautiful  bronze  lacks  life."  At 
night,  beneath  the  moonlit  sky,  he  foamed  about  the 
highways,  crossing  the  black  shadows  of  cypress  trees, 
his  white  tunic  gleaming  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  and 
friends  who  chanced  to  meet  him  hailed  him  in  jest: 

"Art  thou  gathering  moonlight,  Aurelius?  And 
where  be  thy  baskets?" 

And  joining  in  their  laughter  he  made  reply,  point 
ing  to  his  eyes: 


144  LAZARUS 

"Behold  the  baskets  wherein  I  gathered  the  light  of 
the  moon  and  the  radiance  of  the  sun." 

And  he  spoke  the  truth,  for  the  light  of  the  moon 
gleamed  in  his  eyes,  the  radiance  of  the  sun  glowed  in 
them.  But  he  could  not  convert  them  into  marble,  and 
this  was  the  radiant  sorrow  of  his  life. 

He  came  from  an  ancient  patrician  family,  had  a 
loving  wife  and  dutiful  children,  and  lacked  nothing. 

When  a  dim  rumor  concerning  Lazarus  reached  his 
ear,  he  consulted  his  wife  and  friends  and  undertook  the 
long  journey  to  Judea  in  order  to  see  him  who  had  so 
miraculously  risen  from  the  dead.  The  monotony  of  life 
weighed  heavily  upon  him  in  those  days  and  he  hoped 
that  the  journey  would  awaken  his  interest  in  the 
world.  What  he  had  heard  concerning  the  risen  one 
did  not  deter  him,  for  he  had  pondered  much  upon 
death,  though  he  had  no  longing  for  it.  Neither  had  he 
patience  with  those  who  would  confuse  death  with  life. 
"On  this  side  life  and  its  beauty,  he  reasoned,"  and  on 
the  other,  death  with  its  mystery.  Nothing  better  could 
one  imagine  than  to  live  and  enjoy  life  and  the  glory 
of  living."  And  he  even  entertained  a  somewhat  vain 
and  glorious  notion  of  convincing  Lazarus  that  this  was 
the  true  view  and  of  bringing  him  back  to  life,  even  as 
his  body  had  been  brought  back  to  life. 

This  seemed  an  easy  task  for  him,  for  the  rumors 
concerning  the  risen  one,  fearsome  and  strange  as  they 
were,  failed  to  convey  the  whole  truth  and  only  vaguely 
hinted  at  something  dreadful. 

Lazarus  was  rising  from  his  rock  for  his  journey 
into  the  desert  in  the  path  of  the  setting  sun,  when  the 
rich  Roman,  accompanied  by  an  armed  slave,  approach 
ed  him,  and  in  a  sonorous  voice  called  to  him: 

"Lazarus!" 


LAZARUS  145 

Lazarus  beheld  a  haughty  and  handsome  man, 
resplendent  with  fame,  clad  in  white  apparel  bearing 
precious  gems  that  sparkled  in  the  sunshine.  The  radi 
ance  of  the  sun  lent  to  the  head  and  the  features  a  sem 
blance  of  dull  bronze.  After  his  scrutiny  Lazarus  obedi 
ently  resumed  his  seat,  and  listlessly  looked  to  the 
ground. 

"Truly  thou  art  not  fair  to  look  upon,  poor  Lazarus," 
calmly  observed  the  Roman,  toying  with  his  golden 
chain.  "Thou  art  even  terrifying  in  appearance,  poor 
fellow;  and  Death  was  no  sluggard  the  day  thou  so 
carelessly  didst  fall  into  its  clutches.  But  thou  art  as  fat 
as  a  wine  barrel,  and  the  great  Caesar  says  that  fat  peo 
ple  are  harmless.  I  cannot  see  why  people  are  so  afraid 
of  thee.  Thou  wilt  permit  me  to  stay  overnight?  It 
is  already  late  and  I  have  no  abode." 

Nobody  had  ever  sought  permission  to  pass  a 
night  with  Lazarus. 

"I  have  no  couch  to  offer  thee,"  said  he. 

"I  am  somewhat  of  a  soldier  and  can  sleep  sitting," 
replied  the  Roman.  "We  shall  light  a  fire." 

"I  have  no  fire." 

"In  the  darkness  then  like  two  comrades  shall  we 
hold  our  converse.  I  suppose  thou  hast  some  wine 
here?" 

"I  have  no  wine." 

The  Roman  laughed.  "Now  I  comprehend  why  thou 
art  so  morose  and  why  thou  takest  no  delight  in  thy 
second  life.  Thou  hast  no  wine.  Very  well.  We  shall 
do  without.  Thou  knowest  there  are  words  that  turn 
one's  head  even  as  Falernian  wine." 

With  a  motion  of  his  hand  he  dismissed  the  slave 
and  they  were  left  alone.  And  again  the  sculptor  spoke, 
but  it  seemed  that  with  the  sinking  sun  the  glow  of  life 


146  LAZARUS 

had  departed  from  his  words,  for  they  lost  color  and 
substance.  They  reeled  and  slipped  and  stumbled,  as 
though  unsteady  of  foot  of  drunken  with  the  wine  of 
anguish  and  dismay.  Yawning  chasms  appeared  between 
them  like  distant  hints  of  a  vast  void  and  utter  dark 
ness. 

"I  am  thy  guest  now  and  thou  wilt  not  offend  me, 
Lazarus",  he  said.  "Hospitality  is  a  duty  even  for  those 
who  have  been  dead  three  days.  For  they  say  that  thou 
didst  pass  three  days  in  the  grave.  It  must  have  been 
very  chilly  there,  and  it  is  thence  comes  thy  bad  habit 
of  doing  without  wine  and  fire.  But  I  love  the  fire.  It 
grows  dark  here  so  early.  The  line  of  thy  brow  and 
forehead  is  quite  noteworthy,  even  as  the  skyline  of 
palaces  ruined  by  an  earthquake  and  buried  beneath 
ashes.  But  why  is  thy  apparel  so  odd  and  unattractive? 
I  have  seen  the  bridegrooms  in  thy  country  arrayed 
like  this,  such  absurd  attire,  such  repulsive  garments! 
But  art  thou  then  a  bridgeroom?" 

The  sun  had  already  vanished  and  gigantic  black 
shadows  came  hurrying  from  the  east,  as  though  the 
bare  feet  of  giants  came  rustling  over  the  sands,  and  the 
chill  breath  of  swiftly  fleeing  wind  blew  up  behind  them. 

"In  the  darkness  thou  seemest  even  bigger  oh 
Lazarus,  as  though  thou  hast  grown  stouter  in  these 
last  few  minutes.  Dost  thou  perchance  feed  on  dark 
ness?  But  I  should  like  some  fire,  just  a  little  blaze 
the  tiniest  flame  would  do. . .  And  I  am  a  trifle  cold. .. 

You  have  here  such  barbarously  chilly  nights If  it 

were  not  pitch  dark  I  should  say  that  thou  art  looking 
at  me,  Lazarus.  Yes,  methinks  thou  ART  looking  at 
me.  I  feel  it.  Now  thou  art  smiling!" 

The  night  had  set  in  and  a  dense  blackness  filled  the 
air. 


LAZARUS  147 

"How  good  will  it  be  when  the  sun  rises  again  on 
the  morrow...  Thou  knowest  I  am  a  great  sculptor. 
My  friends  call  me  so.  I  create,  yes  I  create  things, 
but  daylight  is  needed  for  that.  I  impart  life  unto  the 
cold  lifeless  marble.  In  the  fire  I  melt  the  ringing 
bronze,  in  a  vivid  and  glowing  fire.  .Why  touchest 
thou  me  with  thy  hand?" 

"Come",  said  Lazarus,  "thou  art  my  guest."  And 
they  entered  the  house.  And  the  shadows  of  a  long 
night  descended  upon  the  earth. 

The  slave  who  had  grown  tired  waiting  for  his 
master  called  for  him  when  the  sun  had  already  risen 
high  overhead.  And  he  saw  under  its  rays  Lazarus  and 
his  master  huddled  closely  together.  They  were  gazing 
upward  in  silence. 

The  slave  wept  aloud  and  called  to  his  master: 
"Master,  what  troubleth  thee?  Master!" 

The  same  day  Aurelius  left  for  Rome.  The  whole 
way  he  was  pensive  and  silent,  scrutinizing  every 
thing,  the  people,  the  ship  and  the  sea,  as  though  strug 
gling  to  commit  something  to  memory.  A  fierce  tempest 
overtook  them,  and  all  the  while  Aurelius  remained  on 
the  deck  gazing  eagerly  on  the  rising  and  sinking  waves. 

At  home  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  him 
caused  consternation,  but  he  calmed  the  apprehensions 
of  his  household  and  observed  significantly:  "I  have 
found  it." 

In  the  same  raiment  that  he  had  worn  during  the 
journey  without  change  he  went  to  work,  and  the  marble 
obediently  responded  to  the  resounding  blows  of  his 
hammer.  He  worked  long  and  eagerly,  refusing  to 
admit  any  one;  at  last  one  morning  he  announced  that 
his  work  was  ready,  and  summoned  all  his  friends,  the 
severe  critics  and  experts  in  art.  He  attired  himself  into 


148  LAZARUS 

sumptuous  and  festive  garments  that  sparkled  with  gold 
and  shone  with  the  purple  of  Bysson. 

"Behold  what  I  have  created",  he  said  musingly. 

His  friends  gazed  on  the  work  and  the  shadow  of 
a  deep  sorrow  clouded  their  faces.  The  group  was  simply 
hideous  to  look  upon :  it  possessed  none  of  the  forms 
familiar  to  the  eye,  though  it  was  not  devoid  of  a  dim 
suggestion  of  some  novel  and  fanciful  image.  Upon  a 
twisted  thin  little  twig,  or  rather  upon  the  misshapen 
likeness  of  one,  crouched  an  unsightly,  distorted  mass 
of  crude  fragments  that  seemed  to  be  weakly  striving 
to  flee  in  all  directions.  And  casually,  under  a  crude 
ridge  they  observed  a  wondrously  wrought  butterfly, 
with  diaphanous  wings  that  was  all  aquiver  with  the 
futile  longing  to  soar  skyward. 

"Why  this  wondrously  wrought  butterfly,  Aurel- 
ius?"  someone  dubiously  inquired. 

"I    don't   know",    replied   the   sculptor. 

But  the  truth  has  to  be  told,  and  one  of  his  friends 
(the  one  who  loved  him  best)  interposed:  "My  poor 
friend,  this  is  a  monstrosity.  It  must  be  destroyed. 
Give  me  the  hammer." 

And  wTith  two  blows  of  the  hammer  he  destroyed 
the  hideous  heap,  sparing  only  the  wondrous  butterfly. 

From  that  time  on  Aurelius  created  nothing.  He 
gazed  with  profound  indifference  upon  marble  and 
bronze  and  upon  his  former  godlike  creations  wherein 
beauty  immortal  dwelt.  In  the  hope  of  inspiring  him 
once  more  with  his  old  zeal  for  work  and  of  reviving 
his  moribund  soul,  his  friends  led  him  to  view  the  be 
autiful  work  of  others,  but  he  maintained  the  same  lack 
of  interest,  and  no  warming  smile  ever  parted  again 
his  tightly  drawn  lips.  Only  when  they  ventured  to 


LAZARUS  149 

hold  lengthy  speeches  on  love  and  beauty  he  wearily  and 
listlessly  replied: 

"But  all  this  is  a  lie." 

And  in  the  daytime  when  the  sun  was  shining  he 
strolled  into  his  luxurious  garden,  and  seeking  out  some 
spot  undimmed  by  the  shade  he  yielded  up  his  uncovered 
head  and  lacklustre  eyes  to  radiance  and  warmth.  Red 
and  white  butterflies  flitted  about  the  garden,  from  the 
contorted  lips  of  a  blissfully  druken  Satyr  the  water 
splashed  coursing  down  into  the  marble  cistern,  but 
he  sat  unmoved  like  a  faint  shadow  of  him  who  in  a 
distant  land  sat  as  immobile  at  the  very  gates  of  the 
desert  beneath  the  arid  rays  of  the  midday  sun. 

CHAPTERV. 

And  now  Augustus  himself,  the  great,  the  divine, 
summoned  Lazarus  to  appear  before  him. 

They  attired  him  in  sumptuous  wedding  garment, 
for  time  and  usage  seemed  to  have  prescribed  these  as 
befitting  him  as  though  he  had  remained  until  his  death 
the  betrothed  of  some  unknown  bride.  It  was  as  though 
an  old,  decaying  and  decrepit  coffin  were  regilded  and 
adorned  with  fresh  gaudy  tinsel.  And  he  was  conducted 
by  a  sumptuously  garbed  and  gay  cortege,  as  though  in 
truth  it  were  a  bridal  procession,  and  the  heralds  loudly( 
sounded  their  trumpets  clearing  the  way  for  the  mes 
sengers  of  the  emperor.  But  the  path  of  Lazarus  was 
deserted.  His  native  land  had  learned  to  execrate  the 
odious  name  of  the  miraculously  risen  one,  and  the  mere 
news  of  his  dread  approach  was  sufficient  to  scatter  the 
people.  The  blasts  of  the  brass  horns  fell  on  the  solitude 
and  only  the  desert  air  responded  with  a  melancholy 
echo. 


150  LAZARUS 

Then  they  took  him  across  the  sea.  And  it  was  the 
most  gorgeous  and  the  saddest  ship  that  was  ever  mir 
rored  against  the  azure  waves  of  the  Mediterranean 
There  were  many  people  aboard,  but  the  vessel  was  as 
mute  and  silent  as  the  grave  and  the  very  waves  seemed 
to  sob  hopelessly  as  they  laved  the  beauti'fully  curved 
and  lofty  prow.  Lazarus  sat  alone,  holding  his  bared 
head  to  the  sun,  listening  in  silence  to  the  murmur  of 
the  waters,  and  afar  off  the  sailors  and  the  messengers 
lounged  around  feebly  and  listlessly  huddled  together 
like  a  cluster  of  despondent  shadows.  If  a  clap  of  thun 
der  had  rent  the  air,  if  a  sudden  gale  had  torn  the  gaudy 
sails,  the  ship  would  have  doubtlessly  perished  for  there 
was  none  on  board  with  strength  or  zeal  enough  to 
struggle  for  life.  With  a  last  weak  effort  some  stepped 
to  the  rail  and  eagerly  gazed  into  the  blue  and  trans 
parent  abyss  waiting  perhaps  for  a  mermaid's  pink 
shoulder  to  flash  from  the  deep  or  for  some  drunken 
and  joy  maddened  centaur  to  gallop  by  splashing  the 
foam  of  the  sea  with  his  hoofs. 

With  stolid  indifference  Lazarus  set  foot  on  the 
streets  of  the  Eternal  City,  as  though  all  its  wealth,  the 
majesty  of  its  structures  that  seemed  to  have  been 
reared  by  giants,  the  splendor,  the  beauty,  the  music 
of  its  elegance  were  simply  the  echo  of  the  desert  wind, 
the  reflex  of  Palestine's  arid  sands.  Chariots  sped  by, 
crowds  of  handsome,  sturdy,  haughty  men  passed  on, 
the  builders  of  the  Eternal  City,  the  proud  participants 
of  her  bustling  life;  the  air  filled  with  the  notes  of 
songs,  the  murmur  of  fountains,  the  pearly  cadences  of 
women's  laughter!  drunkards  held  pompous  speeches 
and  the  sober  listened  smilingly;  and  the  horseshoes 
clattered  and  clatterer  upon  the  pavements.  Caught  all 
around  by  the  whirlpool  of  noisy  merriment  there  moved 


LAZARUS  151 

through  the  city  like  a  blot  of  icy  silence  one  fat  and 
clumsy  creature  sowing  in  his  path  annoyance,  wrath 
and  a  vaguely  cankering  grief.  Who  dare  be  sad  in 
Rome?  The  citizens  were  indignant  and  frowned,  and 
two  days  later  the  whole  ready  tongued  Rome  knew  of 
the  miraculously  resurrected  one  and  timidly  avoided 
him. 

But  there  were  in  Rome  many  brave  people  eager 
to  test  their  prowess,  and  to  their  thoughtless  challenge 
Lazarus  readily  responded.  Busy  with  the  affairs  of 
state  the  Emperor  delayed  receiving  him  and  the  mirac 
ulously  risen  one  for  seven  days  in  succession  paid  visits 
to  those  who  would  see  him. 

A  merry  winebibber  met  Lazarus  and  hailed  him 
with  carefree  laughter  on  his  ruddy  lips. 

"Drink,  Lazarus,  drink !  he  shouted.  "How  Augustus 
would  laugh  to  see  thee  drunk!" 

And  drunken  women  laughed  at  the  sally,  while 
they  showered  rose  leaves  on  the  blue-streaked  hands 
of  Lazarus.  But  the  winebibber  looked  into  his  eyes — 
and  his  joy  was  forever  ended.  He  remained  drunken 
for  life:  he  drank  no  more,  yet  he  remained  drunken 
but  in  the  place  of  joyous  reveries  which  the  wine  yields, 
horrible  dreams  haunted  his  illfated  soul.  Horrible 
dreams  became  the  sole  nourishment  of  his  stricken 
spirit.  Horrible  dreams  held  him  day  and  night  in  the 
spell  of  their  hideous  fancies,  and  death  itself  was  less 
terrible  than  appeared  his  ferocious  precursors. 

Lazarus  called  on  a  youth  and  a  maiden,  lovers  and 
fair  to  look  on  in  their  love.  Proudly  and  firmly  grasping 
the  woman  he  loved  the  youth  remarked  with  gentle 
compassion : 


152  LAZARUS 

"Look  on  us,  Lazarus,  and  rejoice  with  us.    Is  there 

aught  stronger  than  love?" 

And  Lazarus  looked.  And  they  ceased  not  from 
loving  all  their  life  long,  but  their  love  became  gloomy 
and  somber,  like  the  cypress  trees  that  grow  above 
tombs,  feeding  their  roots  on  the  dissolution  within  the 
grave  and  seeking  vainly  in  the  evening  hour  to  reach 
heaven  with  their  dusky  and  pointed  tops.  Thrown 
by  the  unfathomable  force  of  life  into  each  other's  arms 
they  mingled  their  kisses  with  tears,  their  joy  with  pain, 
and  realized  their  twofold  bondage:  the  humble  slaves 
of  inexorable  life  and  the  helpless  bondsmen  of  ominous 
and  mute  Nothingness.  Ever  united,  ever  parted,  they 
flashed  upwards  like  sparks  and  like  sparks  faded  in 
shoreless  gloom. 

Then  came  Lazarus  to  a  haughty  sage  and  the  sage 
told  him: 

"I  know  all  the  terrors  that  thou  canst  relate  to  me, 
Lazarus.  Wherewith  wilt  thou  terrify  me?" 

But  it  was  not  long  before  the  sage  realized  that 
the  knowledge  of  the  horrible  is  not  the  horrible,  and 
that  the  vision  of  death  is  not  death  itself.  And  he  real 
ized  that  wisdom  and  folly  are  the  equals  in  the  sight 
of  the  Infinite,  for  the  Infinite  knows  them  not.  And  the 
boundaries  between  knowledge  and  ignorance,  between 
truth  and  falsehood,  between  height  and  depth  vanished, 
and  his  formless  thoughts  were  suspended  in  emptiness. 
Then  he  seized  his  grey  head  in  his  hands  and  cried  out 
in  agony: 

"I  cannot  think!  I  cannot  think!" 

Thus  succumbed  to  the  stolid  gaze  of  the  mirac 
ulously  risen  one  all  things  that  served  to  affirm  life, 
its  meaning  and  its  joys.  And  it  was  said  that  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  allow  him  to  face  the  Emperor, 


LAZARUS  153 

^ 

that  it  would  be  safer  to  put  him  to  death  and  burying 
him  secretly  to  spread  the  rumor  that  he  had  disap 
peared  without  leaving  a  trace.  Swords  were  already 
sharpened  and  some  youths  devoted  to  the  welfare  of 
the  nation  volunteered  to  be  his  slayers,  when  suddenly 
Augustus  demanded  to  have  Lazarus  brought  before 
him  on  the  morrow  and  upset  their  cruel  plans. 

Though  it  was  impossible  to  remove  Lazarus,  it  was 
thought  best  to  soften  somewhat  the  dreary  impression 
produced  by  his  appearance.  For  this  reason  skilled 
artists  were  summoned,  also  hair  arrangers  and  masters 
of  make-up  and  they  labored  all  night  over  the  head  of 
Lazarus.  They  trimmed  his  beard,  curled  it  and  made 
it  appear  neat  and  attractive.  The  livid  coloring  of 
his  face  and  hands ^ was  removed  by  means  of  paint: 
his  hands  were  bleached  and  his  cheeks  touched  up 
with  red.  The  repulsive  wrinkles  of  suffering  that  fur 
rowed  his  senile  features  were  patched  up,  painted  and 
smoothed  over,  and  lines  of  goodnatured  laughter  and 
pleasant  cheerful  good  humor  were  skillfully  drawn  in 
their  place. 

Lazarus  submitted  stolidly  to  all  they  did  with 
him  and  soon  was  transformed  into  a  naturally  corpulent 
handsome  old  man,  who  looked  like  a  harmless  grand 
father  with  numerous  descendants.  One  could  almost 
see  the  trace  of  a  smile  on  his  lips  with  which  he  might 
have  related  to  them  laughable  stories,  one  almost  de 
tected  in  the  corner  of  his  eyes  the  calm  tenderness  of 
old  age, — such  was  his  quiet  and  reassuring  appearance. 
But  they  had  not  dared  to  take  off  his  wedding  attire, 
nor  could  they  change  his  eyes, —  dark  and  dreadful 
glasses  through  which  there  peered  upon  the  world  the 
unfathomable  Beyond. 


154  LAZARUS 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  magnificence  of  tne  Imperial  palace  failed  to 
impress  Lazarus.  There  might  have  been  no  difference 
between  his  ramshackle  but  at  the  threshhold  of  the 
desert  and  the  splendid  and  massive  palace  of  stone, 
so  stolidly  indifferent  was  his  unobserving  glance.  Un 
der  his  feet  the  solid  marble  slabs  seemed  to  turn  to  the 
sinking  sand  of  the  desert,  and  the  throngs  of  gaily  at 
tired  and  haughty  Romans  might  have  been  thin  air. 
They  avoided  looking  into  his  face  as  he  passed,  fear 
ing  to  succumb  to  the  baneful  spell  of  his  eyes;  but 
when  they  judged  from  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  that 
he  had  passed  on,  they  paused  and  raising  their  heads 
with  a  little  fearsome  curiosity  wached  the  depart 
ing  figure  of  the  tall,  corpulent,  slightly  stooping  old 
man  who  was  slowly  wending  his  way  into  the  heart 
of  the  Imperial  palace.  If  Death  itself  had  passed  by 
they  would  not  have  glanced  after  it  with  greater  awe. 
For  until  then  Death  had  been  known  unto  the  dead 
only  and  life  unto  the  living  and  there  had  been  no  bridge 
between  the  twain.  But  this  strange  being  knew  Death, 
and  awful,  ominous,  accursed  was  his  knowledge.  "He 
will  be  the  death  of  our  great  and  divine  Augustus", 
mused  some  of  them  anxiously  and  muttered  curses 
in  his  wake  as  he  slowly  and  stolidly  made  his  way 
more  and  more  deeply  into  the  palace. 

Caesar  had  already  learned  the  story  of  Lazarus 
and  nerved  himself  to  meet  him.  He  was  a  man  of 
daring  and  courage  and  thoroughly  conscious  of  his  own 
invicible  power.  In  this  fateful  encounter  with  the 
risen  one  he  chose  not  to  lean  upon  the  feeble  aid  of 
men.  Face  to  face,  man  to  man  he  met  Lazarus. 


LAZARUS  155 

"Do  not  lift  up  thine  eyes  to  me,  Lazarus,"  he  com 
manded  him  as  the  stranger  entered.  "I  have  heard  that 
thy  head  is  like  Medusa's  turning  to  stone  him  who 
ventures  to  look  upon  thee.  But  I  desire  to  talk  with  thee 
and  to  examine  thee  before  I  am  turned  to  stone",  he 
added  with  an  Imperial  attempt  at  a  jest  that  was  not 
unmixed  with  a  little  awe. 

Approaching  him  he  examined  attentively  the  face 
and  the  queer  apparel  of  Lazarus,  and  though  he  prided 
himself  on  his  sharp  and  observant  eye  he  was  deceived 
by  the  skill  of  the  artists. 

"Well,  thou  art  not  so  terrible,  worthy  patriarch. 
But  it  is  all  the  worse  for  people  if  the  terrible  assumes 
such  a  dignified  and  agreeable  guise.  Now  let  us  con 
verse." 

Augustus  sat  down  and  with  a  glance  that  was  as 
searching  as  his  words  he  commenced  to  question  him. 

"Why  didst  thou  not  salute  me  as* thou  earnest  in?" 

Lazarus  replied: 

"I  did  not  know  that  it  was  necessary." 

"Art  thou  a  Christian?" 

"No." 

Augustus  nodded  approvingly. 

"Good.  I  dislike  these  Christians.  They  shake  the 
tree  of  life  before  it  yields  its  full  fruitage  and  scatter 
to  the  wind  its  blossoming  fragrance.  But  what  art 
thou?" 

With  an  effort  Lazarus  replied: 

"Once  I  was  dead." 

"So  I  have  heard.     But  what  art  thou  now?" 

Lazarus  hesitated  and  again  replied  listlessly,  stol 
idly: 

"Once  I  was  dead." 

"Listen  to  me,  thou  enigma",  resumed  the  Emperor, 


156  LAZARUS 

in  measured  and  severe  words  voicing  the  thoughts 
which  had  been  in  his  mind  before.  "My  empire  is  the 
empire  of  the  living,  my  people  is  a  living  people  and 
not  dead.  Thou  art  out  of  place  here.  I  do  not  know 
thee,  I  do  not  know  what  thou  hast  seen  There.  But 
whether  thou  liest — I  abhor  thy  lying,  and  if  thou  be 
telling  the  truth  I  abhor  thy  truth.  In  my  bosom  I 
feel  the  throbbing  of  life.  I  feel  vigor  in  my  hands,  and 
my  proud  thoughts  soar  like  eagles  through  space.  And 
there,  behind  me,  under  the  protection  of  my  dominion, 
in  the  shadow  of  laws  created  by  me,  people  live  and 
labor  and  rejoice.  Hearest  thou  this  wondrous  harmony 
of  life?  Hearest  thou  this  warlike  challenge  which  men 
fling  into  the  face  of  the  future  summoning  it  to  a  com 
bat? 

Augustus  reverently  raised  his  hands  and  solemnly 
exclaimed : 

"Blessed  be  Thou  Great  and  Divine  Life !" 

But  Lazarus  was  silent  and  with  added  severity  the 
Emperor  continued: 

"Thou  art  out  of  place  here.  Thou  art  a  pitiful 
remnant,  a  half-eaten  scrap  from  the  table  of  Death, 
thou  breathest  into  people  melancholy  and  hatred  of 
life.  Thou  art  like  the  locust  that  eateth  the  full  ear  of 
grain  knitting  the  slime  of  despair*  and  despondency. 
Thy  truth  is  like  unto  the  rusty  sword  in  the  hands  of 
a  murderous  night  prowler,  and  I  shall  put  thee  to  death 
like  an  assassin.  But  ere  I  do  this  I  will  gaze  into  thine 
eyes.  Perhaps  only  the  cowards  fear  them,  perhaps 
they  will  wake  the  thirst  of  conflict  and  longing  for 
victory  in  the  brave.  If  that  be  so  thou  rneritest  a  re 
ward,  not  death.  Look  then  upon  me,  Lazarus." 

And  at  first  Augustus  fancied  as  though  a  friend 
were  looking  upon  him,  so  gentle,  so  caressing,  so  ten- 


LAZARUS  157 

derly  soothing  was  the  gaze  of  Lazarus.  It  boded  no 
terrors  but  calm  and  repose,  it  was  the  gaze  of  a  tender 
lover,  of  a  compassionate  sister:  through  his  eyes  In 
finity  gazed  even  as  a  mother.  But  the  embrace  grew 
stronger  and  stronger  until  his  breath  was  stopped  by 
lips  that  seemed  to  crave  for  kisses.  And  in  the  next 
instant  he  felt  the  iron  fingers  plowing  through  the 
tender  tissues  of  his  flesh,  and  cruel  claws  sank  slowly 
into  his  heart. 

"I  am  in  pain",  moaned  Divus  Augustus  with 
blanching  cheek.  "Yet,  look  on  me  still,  Lazarus,  look 
on/' 

As  though  through  slowly  opening  gates  that  had 
been  shut  for  aeons  the  horror  of  the  Infinite  poured 
coldly  and  calmly  out  of  the  growing  breach.  Fathom 
less  waste  and  fathomless  darkness  entered  like  twin 
shadows  quenching  the  light  of  the  sun,  removing  the 
ground  underfoot,  obliterating  all  overhead.  And  pain 
left  the  benumbed  heart  of  Augustus. 

"Look,  look  still,  Lazarus",  commanded  he  reeling. 

Time  ceased  and  the  beginning  of  things  faced  the 
end  thereof  in  an  ominous  meeting.  The  throne  of 
Augustus,  so  recently  reared,  was  overthrown ;  a  barren 
waste  reigned  jn  the  place  of  Augustus  and  of  his  throne. 
Rome  herself  had  gone  to  a  silent  doom,  and  a  new  city 
rose  in  her  place,  only  in  her  turn  to  be  swallowed 
up  by  nothingness.  Like  phantom  giants  cities  and 
states  and  empires  swiftly  fell  and  vanished  into  empti 
ness,  swallowed  up  in  the  insatiable  maw  of  the  Infinite. 

"Stop",  commanded  Caesar,  and  already  a  note  of 
indifference  sounded  in  his  voice.  His  arms  hung  limply 
from  his  shoulders,  and  his  eagle  eyes  now  flashed,  now 
grew  dim  in  a  futile  struggle  against  the  darkness  that 
threatened  to  overwhelm  him. 


158  LAZARUS 

"Thou  hast  slain  me,  Lazarus",  he  stammered  list 
lessly. 

And  these  words  of  hopelessness  saved  him.  He 
remembered  his  people  whose  shield  he  was  called  to 
be,  and  his  moribund  heart  was  pierced  with  a  sharp  and 
redeeming  pang.  He  thought  of  them  bitterly  as  he 
pictured  them  doomed  to  ruin.  He  thought  of  his 
people  with  anguish  in  his  soul  as  he  saw  them  like 
luminous  shadows  flitting  through  the  gloom  of  the 
Infinite.  Tenderly  he  thought  of  them  as  of  brittle  ves 
sels  throbbing  with  life  blood  and  endowed  with  hearts 
that  know  both  sorrow  and  joy. 

Thus  reasoning  and  feeling,  with  the  balance  now 
favoring  life,  now  inclined  towards  death,  he  slowly 
fought  his  way  back  to  life,  to  find  in  its  sufferings  and 
joys  a  shield  against  the  emptiness  and  the  terror  of 
the  Infinite. 

"No,  thou  hast  not  slain  me,  Lazarus",  he  exclaimed, 
with  firmness,  "but  I  shall  slay  thee,  Go !" 

That  night  Divus  Augustus  partook  of  food  and 
drink  with  a  keen  delight.  But  there  were  moments 
when  the  uplifted  arm  paused  in  mid-air  and  a  shadow 
dimmed  the  lustre  of  his  shining  aquiline  eyes, — it  was 
like  a  wave  of  icy  horror  beating  against  his  feet. 
Downed,  but  not  utterly  destroyed,  coldly  awaiting  the 
appointed  hour,  the  spirit  of  Fear  cast  its  shadow  into 
the  Emperor's  life,  standing  guard  at  the  head  of  his 
bed  as  he  slumbered  at  night  and  meekly  yielding  the 
sunny  days  to  the  joys  and  the  sorrows  of  life. 

Next  day,  by  the  Emperor's  command,  they  burned 
out  the  eyes  of  Lazarus  with  hot  irons  and  sent  him  back 
to  his  native  land.  Divus  Augustus  dared  not  put  him 
to  death. 

*    *    * 


LAZARUS  159 


Lazarus  returned  to  the  desert,  and  the  desert  re 
ceived  him  with  the  breath  of  the  hissing  wind  and  the 
arid  welcome  of  the  consuming  sun.  Once  again  he  sat 
on  the  rock,  raising  aloft  his  shaggy  neglected  beard. 
In  the  place  of  the  two  burned-out  eyes  twin  black 
sockets  peered  dull  and  gruesome  at  the  sky.  In  the 
distance  surged  the  restless  roar  of  the  Holy  City,  but 
near  him  all  was  deserted  and  dumb.  No  one  came 
near  the  place  where  the  miraculously  risen  one  was 
passing  the  end  of  his  days,  and  his  neighbors  had 
long  since  forsaken  their  abodes.  His  accursed  know 
ledge,  banished  by  the  searing  irons  into  the  depths  of 
his  head,  lay  there  concealed  as  though  in  ambush ;  as 
though  from  ambush  it  assailed  the  beholder  with  a 
myriad  invisible  eyes,  and  no  one  dared  now  look  at 
Lazarus. 

And  in  the  evening,  when  the  sun,  ruddy  and  swol 
len,  was  sinking  in  the  west,  sightless  Lazarus  slowly 
groped  after  it.  He  stumbled  over  stones  and  fell,  fat 
and  weak  as  he  was,  then  he  rose  heavily  and  walked 
on.  And  against  the  crimson  canvas  of  the  sunset  his 
dark  form  and  outstretched  arms  gave  him  a  monstrous 
resemblance  to  the  cross. 

And  it  happened  one  day  that  he  went  and  never  re 
turned.  Thus  apparently  ended  the  second  life  of 
Lazarus,  who  had  been  three  days  under  the  dominion 
of  Death  and  miraculously  rose  from  the  dead. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY. 


163 


I. 


A  strange  and  mysterious  fate  pursued  Vassily 
Feeveysky  all  through  his  life.  As  though  damned  by 
some  unfathomable  curse,  from  his  youth  on  he  stag 
gered  under  a  heavy  burden  of  sadness,  sickness  and  sor 
row,  and  the  bleeding  wounds  of  his  heart  refused  to 
beal.  Among  men  he  stood  aloof,  like  a  planet  among 
planets,  and  a  peculiar  atmosphere,  baneful  and  blight 
ing,  seemed  to  enshroud  him  like  an  invisible,  diaphan 
ous  cloud. 

The  son  of  a  meek  and  patient  parish  priest,  he  was 
meek  and  patient  himself,  and  for  a  long  time  failed  to 
observe  the  ominous  and  mysterious  deliberation  with 
which  misfortunes  persistently  broke  over  his  unattrac 
tive  shaggy  head. 

Swiftly  he  fell,  and  slowly  rose  to  his  feet ;  fell  again, 
and  slowly  rose  once  more,  and  laboriously,  speck  by 
speck,  grain  by  grain,  set  to  work  restoring  his  frail 
anthill  by  the  side  of  the  great  highway  of  life. 

But  when  he  was  ordained  priest  and  married  a  good 
woman,  begetting  by  her  a  son  and  a  daughter,  he  com 
menced  to  feel  that  all  was  now  well  and  safe  with  him, 
just  as  with  other  people,  and  would  so  remain  for  ever. 
-And  he  blessed  God,  for  he  believed  in  Him  solemnly  and 
simply,  as  a  priest  and  as  a  man  in  whose  soul  there 
\vas  no  guile. 

And  it  happened  in  the  seventh  year  of  his  hap 
piness,  in  the  noon  hour  of  a  sultry  day  in  July,  that  the 
village  children  went  to  the  river  to  swim,  and  with  them 
went  Father  Vassily's  son,  like  his  father  Vassily  by 


164  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

na(me,  and  like  him  swarthy  of  face  and  meek  in  man 
ner.  And  little  Vassily  was  drowned.  His  young  mother, 
the  Popadya*),  came  running  to  the  river  bank  with  the 
crowd,  and  the  plain  and  appalling  picture  of  human 
death  engraved  itself  indelibly  on  her  memory:  the  dull 
and  ponderous  thumping  of  her  own  heart,  as  though 
each  heart  beat  threatened  to  be  her  last;  and  the  odd 
transparence  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  moved  hither 
?nd  thither  the  humdrum  familiar  figures  of  people, 
though  now  they  seemed  so  strangely  aloof,  as  if  severed 
from  the  earth;  and  the  disconnected,  confused  hubbub 
of  voices,  with  each  word  rounding  in  the  air  and  slowly 
melting  away  as  new  sounds  come  into  being. 

And  she  conceived  a  lifelong  fear  of  bright  and  sun 
ny  days.  For  at  such  times  she  saw  again  the  barricade 
of  muscular  backs  gleaming  white  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 
and  the  bare  feet  planted  firmly  among  the  trampled 
cabbage  heads,  and  the  rhythmic  swing  of  something 
bright  and  white  in  the  trough  of  wrhich  freely  rolled  a 
light  little  body,  so  gruesomely  near,  so  gruesomely  far, 
and  for  ever  estranged.  And  long  after  little  Vassya**) 
had  been  buried,  and  the  grass  had  grown  over  his  grave, 
the  Popadya  kept  repeating  that  prayer  of  all  bereaved 
mothers:  "Lord,  take  my  life,  but  give  me  back  my 
child." 

Soon  Father  Vassily's  whole  household  learned  to 
dread  the  bright  days  of  summer  time,  when  the  sun 
shines  too  glaringly  and  sets  ablaze  the  treacherous  river 
until  the  eyes  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  it.  On  such  days, 
when  the  people,  the  beasts  and  the  fields  all  around  were 
radiant  with  gladness,  the  members  of  Father  Vassily's 


*)  Popadya,  the  wife  of  a  Russian  village  priest  or  "pope,"  is  a 
distinct  type  in  the  social  world  of  the  Russian  village. 
**)  Pet  name  for  Vassily. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  165 

household  were  wont  to  watch  his  wife  with  awestricken 
eyes,  engaging  purposely  in  loud  conversation  and 
laughter,  while  she,  sluggish  and  indolent,  rose  to  her 
feet,  eyeing  the  others  so  fixedly  and  queerly  that  they 
were  forced  to  avert  their  gaze,  and  languidly  lolled 
through  the  house,  as  though  hunting  for  some  needless 
article,  a  key,  or  a  spoon  or  a  glass.  Whatever  she  need 
ed  was  carefully  placed  in  her  path,  but  she  continued 
to  seek,  and  her  search  increased  in  intentness  and  agita 
tion  in  the  measure  that  the  bright  and  merry  orb  of 
the  sun  rose  higher  in  the  firmajnent.  And  she  approached 
her  husband,  placing  her  lifeless  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  kept  repeating  in  a  pleading  voice. 

"Vassya  !    Vassya !    I  say !" 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  meekly  and  hopelessly  responded 
Father  Vassily,  trying  to  smooth  her  disheveled  hair 
with  trembling  fingers  that  were  sunburnt  and  black 
with  the  soil  and  were  badly  in  want  of  trimming.  She 
was  still  young  and  pretty,  and  her  arm  rested  upon  the 
shabby  cassock  of  her  husband  as  though  carved  of 
marble,  white  and  heavy. 

"What  is  it,  dear?  Will  you  have  some  tea  now? 
You  have  not  had  any  yet." 

"Vassya!  Vassya,  I  say!"  she  repeated  pleadingly, 
removing  her  arm  from  his  shoulder  like  some  needless, 
superfluous  object,  and  returned  to  her  searching,  only 
still  more  restlessly  and  excitedly.  Walking  all  through 
the  house,  not  a  room  of  which  had  been  tidied,  she  pass 
ed  into  the  garden,  from  the  garden  into  the  court  yard, 
and  again  into  the  house,  while  the  sun  rose  higher  and 
higher,  and  through  the  trees  could  be  seen  a  flash  of 
the  warm  sluggish  river.  And  step  after  step,  clinging 
tightly  to  her  mother's  skirt,  Nastya*),  the  Popadya's 


*)  Diminutive  of  Anastasia. 


166  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

daughter,  shambled  after  her,  morose  and  sullen,  as 
though  the  black  shadow  of  impending  doom  had  lodged 
itself  even  over  her  little  six-year-old  heart.  She  anx 
iously  hurried  her  little  steps  to  keep  pace  with  the  dis 
tracted  big  stride  of  her  mother,  casting  furtively  yearn 
ing  glances  upon  the  familiar,  but  ever  mysterious  and 
enticing  garden,  and  she  longingly  stretched  out  her 
disengaged  hand  towards  a  bush  of  sour  gooseberries, 
and  stealthily  plucked  a  few,  though  the  sharp  thorns 
cruelly  scratched  her.  And  the  prick  of  these  thorns  that 
were  sharp  as  needles,  and  the  acid  taste  of  the  berries, 
intensified  the  scowl  on  her  face,  and  she  longed  to 
v  himper  like  an  abandoned  pup. 

When  the  sun  reached  the  zenith,  the  Popadya 
closed  tightly  the  shutters  in  the  windows  of  her  room, 
and  in  the  darkness  gave  herself  up  to  liquor  until  she 
was  drunken,  drawing  from  each  drained  glassful  fresh 
pangs  of  agony  and  searching  memories  of  her  perished 
child.  She  shed  bitter  tears,  and  in  the  awkward  drone 
of  an  ignorant  person  trying  to  read  aloud  out  of  a  book, 
she  kept  telling  over  and  over  again  the  story  of  a  meek 
and  swarthy  little  boy  who  had  lived,  laughed  and  died ; 
and  with  this  bookish  singsong  she  resurrected  his  eyes 
and  his  smile  and  his  oldfashioned  manner  of  speech. 

"  'Vassya',  I  say  to  him,  'why  do  you  tease  kitty? 
Don't  tease  her,  dear.  God  told  us  to  be  merciful  to  all — 
to  the  little  horsies,  and  to  the  kittens  and  to  the  little 
chicks'.  And  he  lifts  up  his  sweet  eyes  to  me,  the  darling, 
and  says:  'And  why  isn't  kittie  merciful  to  little  birdies? 
See  the  pigeons  have  raised  their  little  ones,  and  kittie 
eats  up  the  pigeons,  and  the  little  birdies  are  calling, 
calling  for  their  mamma/  " 

And  Father  Vassily  listened  meekly  and  hopelessly, 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  167 

while  outside,  under  the  closed  shutters,  amid  burdocks, 
nettles  and  thistles,  little  Nastya  sat  sprawling  on  the 
ground,  and  played  sulkily  with  her  doll.  And  always 
her  play  was  this:  dollie  refused  to  mind  and  was  pun 
ished  and  she  twisted  dollie's  arms  till  she  thought  they 
hurt  and  whipped  her  with  a  twig  of  nettles. 

When  Father  Vassily  had  first  found  his  wife  in  a 
state  of  inebriety,  and  from  her  rebelliously  agitated, 
bitterly  exulting  face  had  realized  that  this  thing  had 
come  to  stay,  he  shriveled  up  and  the  next  moment  burst 
cut  in  a  fit  of  subdued,  senseless  laughter,  rubbing  his 
hot  dry  hands.  And  a  long  time  he  laughed,  a  long  time 
he  kept  rubbing  his  hands;  he  strove  to  restrain  this 
desire  to  laugh,  which  was  so  obviously  out  of  place,  and 
turning  aside  from  his  sobbing  wife,  he  snickered  softly 
into  his  fist  like  a  naughty  school  boy.  Then  just  as 
abruptly  he  turned  serious,  his  jaws  snapped  like  metal; 
but  not  a  word  of  comfort  could  he  utter  to  the  hysterical 
woman,  not  a  caressing  word  could  he  find  for  her.  But 
when  she  had  fallen  asleep,  the  priest  bent  down,  making 
three  times  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  her.  Then  he  went 
cut  and  found  little  Nastya  in  the  garden,  coldly  patted 
her  on  the  head  and  stalked  out  into  the  fields. 

For  a  long  time  he  followed  a  little  path  through 
the  rye  which  was  standing  fairly  high  in  the  field  and 
looked  down  into  the  soft  white  dust  which  here  and 
there  retained  the  impress  of  heels  and  the  outline  of 
someone's  bare  feet.  The  sheaves  nearest  to  the  path 
were  crushed  to  the  ground,  some  lying  across  the  path, 
and  the  grain  was  crushed,  blackened  and  flattened. 

Where  the  path  turned,  Father  Vassily  stopped. 
Ahead  of  him  and  all  around  him  swayed  the  full  grain 
on  slender  stalks,  overhead  was  the  shoreless  blazing  sky 


168  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

of  July  grown  white  with  the  heat,  and  nothing  more: 
not  a  tree,  not  a  hut,  not  a  man.  Alone  he  stood,  lost 
in  the  dense  field  of  grain,  alone  before  the  face  of 
Heaven — set  high  above  him  and  blazing. 

Father  Vassily  lifted  up  his  eyes — they  were  little 
eyes,  sunken  and  black  as  coal;  they  were  aglow  with 
the  bright  reflection  of  the  heavenly  flame,  and  he  pressed 
lus  hands  to  his  breast  and  tried  to  say  something.  The 
iron  jaws  quivered,  but  did  not  yield.  Gnashing  his 
teeth  the  priest  forced  them  apart,  and  with  this  move 
ment  of  his  lips  that  resembled  a  convulsive  yawn,  loud 
and  distinct  came  the  words: 

"I— believe!" 

Unechoed  in  the  wilderness  of  sky  and  of  fields  was 
lost  this  wailing  orison  that  so  madly  resembled  a  chal 
lenge.  And  as  though  contradicting  so'me  one,  as  though 
passionately  pleading  with  some  one  and  warning  him, 
he  repeated  once  more: 

"I— believe." 

And  returning  home,  once  more,  speck  by  speck, 
grain  by  grain,  he  fell  to  the  work  of  restoring  his 
wrecked  anthill:  he  watched  the  milking  of  cows,  with 
his  own  hands  he  combed  Nastya's  long  and  coarse  hair, 
and  despite  the  late  hour  he  drove  ten  versts  into  the 
country  for  the  district  physician  in  order  to  seek  his 
sdvice  with  regard  to  his  wife's  ailment.  And  the  doctor 
prescribed  her  some  drops. 

II. 

No  one  liked  Father  Vassily,  neither  his  parishioners, 
nor  the  vestry  of  the  church.  He  intoned  the  service 
awkwardly,  without  decorum :  his  voice  was  dry  and  in 
distinct,  and  he  either  hurried  so  that  the  deacon  had  a 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  169 

hard  time  to  keep  up  with  him,  or  he  fell  behind  without 
rime  or  reason.  He  was  not  covetous,  but  he  accepted 
money  and  donations  so  clumsily  that  all  believed  him 
to  be  greedy  and  scoffed  at  him  behind  his  back.  And 
everybody  knew  that  he  was  unlucky  in  his  private  life 
and  avoided  him,  considering  it  a  poor  o'men  to  meet  him 
or  to  talk  with  him.  His  Saint's  Day*)  was  celebrated  on 
November  the  twenty-eighth.  He  had  invited  many  to 
dinner,  and  in  compliance  with  his  ceremonious  invitation 
every  one  promised  to  come,  but  only  the  vestrymen 
made  their  appearance,  and  of  the  better  parishioners  not 
a  soul  attended.  And  he  was  humiliated  before  the 
\cstrymen,  but  the  Popadya  felt  the  insult  most  keenly, 
for  the  delicacies  and  wines  which  she  had  ordered  from 
the  city  had  to  go  to  waste. 

"No  one  even  cares  to  come  and  see  us,"  she  said, 
sober  and  downcast,  when  the  last  of  their  few  guests 
had  departed,  noisy  and  drunken,  after  a  senseless  gorg 
ing,  having  paid  no  regard  to  the  rare  vintage  of  wines 
or  to  the  quality  of  the  food. 

But  it  was  the  head  of  the  vestry,  Ivan  Porfyritch 
Koprov,  who  treated  the  priest  worse  than  the  rest  of 
the  parishioners.  He  openly  exhibited  his  contempt  for 
the  luckless  man,  and  when  the  Popadya's  periodical 
lapses  into  appalling  inebriety  had  become  a  public 
scandal,  he  refused  to  kiss  the  priest's  hand.  And  the 
good-natured  deacon  tried  vainly  to  reason  with  him. 

"Shame  on  thee.  It  is  not  the  man,  but  his  holy  of 
fice  that  must  be  respected." 

But  Ivan  Porfyritch  stubbornly  refused  to  dissociate 
the  office  from  the  man,  and  replied : 


*)  The  day  in  the  church  calendar  dedicated  to  the  saint  for 
whom  a  Russian  child  is  named.  It  is  celebrated  with,  more  solem 
nity  than  the  birthday. 


170  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

"He  is  a  worthless  man.  He  can  neither  keep  him 
self  in  order,  nor  his  wife.  Is  it  right  for  a  spiritual  ad 
viser's  wife  to  persist  in  drunkenness,  without  shame  or 
conscience?  Let  my  wife  try  and  go  on  a  spree,  I'd  stop 
her  quickly." 

The  deacon  shook  his  head  reproachfully  and  men 
tioned  the  long-suffering  of  Job,  how  God  had  loved  him, 
but  turned  him  over  to  Satan  to  be  tried,  but  later  re 
warded  him  an  hundredfold  for  all  his  sufferings.  But 
Ivan  Porfyritch  smiled  scornfully  into  his  beard  and 
without  the  slightest  compunction  cut  short  the  disagree 
able  admonition. 

"Don't  tell  me,  I  know.  Job,  so  to  speak,  was  a 
righteous  man,  a  holy  man,  but  what  is  this  one?  Where 
is  his  righteousness?  Rather  remember,  deacon,  the  old 
proverb :  God  marks  a  rogue.  There  is  sound  sense  in 
that  proverb." 

"Wait,  the  priest  will  get  even  with  thee,  for  re 
fusing  to  kiss  his  hand.  He'll  drive  thee  out  of  the 
church." 

"We'll  see  about  that." 

"All  right,  we'll  see." 

And  they  bet  a  gallon  of  cherry  brandy  whether  the 
priest  would  expel  him  or  not.  The  vestry  man  won; 
next  Sunday  he  turned  his  back  on  the  priest  with  an 
insolent  air,  and  the  hand  which  the  priest  had  extended 
to  be  kissed,  burnt  brown  it  was  from  the  sun — remained 
desolately  suspended  in  midair,  and  Father  Vassily 
flushed  a  deep  purple,  but  did  not  say  a  word. 

And  after  this  incident  which  was  much  talked 
about  in  the  village,  Ivan  Porfyritch  became  still  more 
firmly  convinced  that  the  priest  was  a  bad  and  an  un 
worthy  man  and  began-  to  incite  the  villagers  to  complain 
to  the  bishop  and  to  ask  for  another  parish  priest. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  171 

Ivan  Porfyritch  himself  was  a  man  of  wealth,  very 
fortunate  in  all  things,  and  enjoyed  general  esteem.  He 
had  an  impressive  face,  with  firm  round  cheeks  and  an 
immense  black  beard,  and  his  whole  body  was  covered 
with  a  growth  of  dense  black  hair,  particularly  his  legs 
and  his  chest,  and  he  believed  that  hairiness  was  a  sign 
of  great  good  luck.  He  believed  in  his  luck  as  firmly 
as  he  believed  in  God,  and  considered  himself  an  elect 
among  the  people;  he  was  proud,  self-reliant  and  in 
variably  in  good  spirits.  In  a  terrible  railroad  wreck  in 
which  a  multitude  of  people  had  perished,  he  merely  lost 
a  cap  which  had  been  trampled  into  the  mire. 

"And  it  was  an  old  one  at  that!"  he  was  wont  to 
add  with  much  self-satisfaction,  evidently  considering 
this  incident  an  eloquent  proof  of  his  merits. 

He  regarded  all  men  as  rogues  and  fools,  and  knew 
no  mercy  towards  either  variety.  It  was  his  habit  with 
his  own  hands  to  strangle  the  pups,  of  whom  his  black 
setter  Gipsy  presented  him  yearly  a  generous  litter;  only 
the  strongest  one  among  them  he  suffered  to  live  for 
breeding  purposes,  though  he  willingly  distributed  some 
of  the  others  to  those  who  wanted  a  dog,  for  he  con 
sidered  dogs  to  be  useful  animals.  In  forming  opinions 
Ivan  Porfyritch  was  rash  and  unreasonable,  but  he  easily 
departed  from  them,  without  noticing  his  inconsist 
encies;  yet  his  actions  were  uniformly  firm  and  resolute 
and  only  rarely  erroneous. 

And  all  this  made  the  head  of  the  vestry  a  terrible 
and  an  extraordinary  personage  in  the  eyes  of  the  hunted 
priest.  When  they  met,  he  was  the  first  to  raise  his 
broad-rimmed  hat,  which  he  did  with  indecorous  haste, 
and  as  he  walked  away,  he  felt  that  his  gait  grew  faster 
and  more  shuffling,  revealing  itself  as  the  gait  of  a  man 
who  was  scared  and  ashamed,  and  his  scrawny  legs  were 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

tangled  in  the  folds  of  his  cassock.  It  seemed  as  though 
his  very  fate,  cruel  and  enigmatic,  was  personified  in  that 
immense  black  beard,  in  those  hairy  hands,  and  in  that 
resolute,  straight  stride,  and  if  he  did  not  crumple  up 
and  slink  away  and  hide  behind  his  four  walls,  this 
menacing  monster  would  crush  him  like  an  ant. 

And  whatever  pertained  to  Ivan  Porfyritch  or  be 
longed  to  him,  aroused  the  eager  interest  of  the  priest, 
so  that  some  times  for  days  at  a  stretch  he  could  think 
of  nothing  else  but  of  the  churchwarden,  his  wife,  his 
children,  his  wealth.  Working  with  the  peasants  in  the 
fields,  (in  his  coarse,  tarred  boots  and  in  his  cheap  work 
ing  blouse  he  greatly  resembled  an  humble  peasant) 
Father  Vassily  would  often  turn  his  face  to  the  village, 
and  the  first  sight  that  greeted  his  eyes  alongside  of  the 
church,  was  the  red  iron  roof  of  the  churchwarden's 
two-story  house.  Then  behind  the  greying  green  of 
wind-wrecked  willows  he  traced  with  difficulty  the  out 
line  of  the  weather-beaten  shingle  roof  of  his  own  little 
home;  and  the  sight  of  these  two  so  contrasting  roofs 
filled  the  heart  of  the  priest  with  the  anguish  of  hope 
lessness. 

One  feast  day  the  Popadya  returned  from  the  church 
in  tears  and  told  her  husband  that  Ivan  Porfyritch  had 
grossly  insulted  her.  As  she  was  making  her  way  to 
her  place,  he  remarked  from  behind  the  lectern,  loudly 
enough  for  the  whole  congregation  to  hear: 

"This  drunken  wench  ought  not  to  be  allowed  in  the 
church  at  all.  She's  a  disgrace!" 

As  the  Popadya  sobbingly  related  this  incident  to 
her  husband,  Father  Vassily  observed  with  horrible  and 
merciless  clearness  how  she  had  aged  and  come  down 
in  the  four  years  which  had  passed  since  Vassya's  death. 
She  was  still  young,  but  silver  threads  were  running 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  173 

through  her  hair,    the  teeth  once   so   white   had   turned 
black,  and  her  eyes  were  baggy. 

She  was  now  a  confirmed  smoker,  and  it  was  painful 
to  watch  her  puffing  a  cigarette  which  she  held  in  a 
clumsy,  feminine  fashion  between  two  rigidly  extended 
fingers.  She  smoked  and  wept  and  the  cigarette  trembled 
between  her  lips  that  were  swollen  with  sobbing. 

"Why,  oh  why,  oh  Lord?"  she  kept  repeating  in  an 
guish,  and  with  the  intentness  of  stupor  she  gazed 
through  the  window  against  which  pattered  the  chill 
drops  of  a  September  rainstorm.  The  panes  were  dim 
with  water,  and  the  birch  outside,  heavy  with  rain  drops, 
seemed  to  sway  back  and  forth  with  the  shadowy  de 
liquescence  of  a  specter.  In  their  efforts  to  save  fuel, 
they  had  not  yet  started  heating  the  house,  and  the  air 
in  the  room  was  damp  and  chilly  and  almost  as  uncom 
fortable  as  outdoors. 

"What  can  you  do  with  him,  Nastenka*)  ?"  retorted 
the  priest  rubbing  his  dry  warm  hands.  "We  must  bear 
it" 

"Lord,  Lord,  is  there  not  a  soul  to  take  my  part?" 
wailed  the  Popadya,  and  in  the  corner  gazed  dry  and 
immobile  the  wolfish  eyes  of  skulking  little  Nastya 
through  a  hedge  of  coarse  and  unkempt  hair. 

The  Popadya  was  drunk  before  bedtime,  and  then 
ensued  that  appalling,  abominable,  piteous  scene  which 
Father  Vassily  could  never  thereafter  recall  without  a 
sense  of  chaste  horror  and  of  consuming,  unbearable 
shame.  In  the  morbid  gloom  of  tightly  closed  shutters, 
?mid  the  mons.trous  visions  born  of  alcohol,  in  the  wake 
of  obstinate  wails  for  her  lost  first-born,  his  wife  had 
conceived  the  insane  notion  of  bringing  a  new  son  into 


*)   Diminutive  of  Anastasia. 


174  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

the  world.  To  resurrect  his  sweet  smile,  to  resurrect 
those  eyes  that  once  had  sparkled  with  benign  radiance, 
to  bring  back  his  calm  and  sensible  speech :  to  resurrect 
the  lad  himself,  as  he  had  lived  in  the  glory  of  his  sin 
less  childhood,  as  he  had  appeared  on  that  horrible  day 
in  July  when  the  sun  blazed  so  brightly  and  the  treacher 
ous  river  glistened  so  blindingly.  And  consumed  with  a 
frenzy  of  hope,  all  beauteous  and  hideous  with  the  flames 
that  had  enwrapped  her,  the  Popadya  stormily  demanded 
her  husband's  caresses,  pleaded  for  them  with  piteous 
hu/mility.  She  coyly  primped  herself,  she  coquetted  with 
him,  but  the  expression  of  horror  never  passed  from 
his  face.  She  strove  with  the  energy  of  passionate  an 
guish  to  become  again  as  tender  and  desirable  as  she 
had  been  ten  years  back,  and  she  tried  to  assume  a  shy, 
maidenly  look,  whispering  coy,  girlish  words,  but  her 
liquor-lamed  tongue  refused  to  obey  her,  and  through 
her  shyly  lowered  eyelashes  ever  more  luridly  and  ob 
viously  flashed  the  flame  of  passionate  desire,  while  the 
swarthy  face  of  her  husband  remained  transfixed  with 
horror.  He  had  covered  his  burning  head  with  his  hands, 
weakly  whispering: 

"Don't!     Don't!" 

And  she  sank  to  her  knees  and  hoarsely  pleaded: 

"Have  pity  on  me !  Give  me  back  my  Vassya !  Give 
him  back  to  me,  priest!  I  say,  give  him  back  to  me, 
curse  you !" 

And  the  autumnal  rain  gusts  beat  fiercely  against 
the  tightly  closed  shutters,  and  the  stormy  night  heaved 
deep  and  painful  sighs. 

Cut  off  from  world  and  life  by  the  walls  and  the 
curtain  of  night,  they  seemed  to  be  whirling  in  the 
throes  of  a  frenzied  labyrinthic  nightmare,  and  around 
them  swirled  wails  and  curses  that  would  not  die.  Mad- 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  175 

ness  stood  guard  at  the  door;  the  searing  air  was  its 
breath;  and  its  eyes  the  lurid  glare  of  the  oil  lamp 
stifling  in  the  maw  of  a  soot-grimed  globe. 

"You  will  not?  You  will  not?"  cried  the  Popadya, 
and  with  maniacal  yearning  for  motherhood  she  tore  off 
her  raiment,  shamelessly  baring  her  body,  ardent  and 
terrible  like  a  Bacchante,  piteous  and  pathetic  like  a 
mother  mourning  for  her  child.  "You  will  not?  Then 
before  God  I  tell  you  I'll  go  out  into  the  street.  I  will 
throw  myself  on  the  neck  of  the  first  man  I  meet.  Give 
me  back  my  Vassya,  curse  you!" 

And  her  passion  vanquished  the  chaste-hearted 
priest.  To  the  weird  moaning  of  the  autumnal  storm, 
to  the  sound  of  her  frenzied  babble,  life  itself,  the  eternal 
liar,  seemed  to  bare  her  dark  and  mysterious  loins,  and 
through  his  darkening  consciousness  flashed  like  a  gleam 
or  distant  lightning  a  monstrous  conception:  of  a  mirac 
ulous  resurrection,  of  some  far-off  miraculously  hazard 
ous  chance.  And  to  the  demoniac  passion  of  the  Popadya, 
heart-chaste  and  shamefaced,  he  responded  with  a  pas 
sion  as  frenzied,  wherein  all  things  blended:  the  glory 
of  hope,  and  the  fervor  of  prayer,  and  the  boundless  de 
spair  of  a  great  malefactor. 

In  the  dead  of  night,  when  the  Popadya  had  fallen 
into  a  heavy  sleep,  Father  Vassily  took  his  hat  and  his 
stick,  and  without  stopping  to  dress,  in  a  shabby  nain 
sook  cassock  went  out  into  the  fields.  The  storm  had 
subsided.  The  vapory  drizzle  had  spread  a  moist  and 
chilly  film  over  the  rainsoaked  earth.  The  sky  was  as 
black  as  the  earth,  and  the  night  of  autumn  breathed 
utter  desolation.  Within  its  gloomy  maw  the  man  had 
vanished,  leaving  no  trace.  Once  his  stick  knocked  against 
a  boulder  that  chanced  to  lie  in  its  path,  then  all  was 
still,  and  a  lasting  silence  ensued.  A  lifeless  vapory  mist 


176  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

stifled  each  timid  sound  in  its  icy  embrace.  The  moribund 
foliage  did  not  stir,  not  a  voice,  not  a  cry,  not  a  groan 
was  heard.  Long  lasted  the  silence — and  it  was  the 
silence  of  death. 

And  far  beyond  the  village,  away  from  any  human 
habitation,  an  invisible  voice  pierced  the  gloom.  It  was 
a  voice  that  was  broken,  choking  and  hoarse,  like  the 
moaning  of  infinite  loneliness.  But  the  words  it  spoke 
were  as  clear  as  celestial  fire: 

"I — believe!"  said  the  invisible  voice.  And  in  it 
were  mingled  menace  and  prayer,  warning  and  hope. 

III. 

In  the  spring  the  Popadya  knew  that  she  would  be 
a  mother;  all  through  the  summer  she  abstained  from 
liquor,  and  a  peace,  serene  and  joyous,  was  enthroned 
in  Father  Vassily's  household.  But  the  invisible  foe  still 
dealt  his  blows :  now  the  twelve-pood*)  hog  which  they 
had  fattened  for  the  market  took  sick  and  died;  now 
little  Nastya  broke  out  all  over  her  body  in  a  malignant 
rash  and  refused  to  respond  to  treatment.  But  all  these 
blows  were  borne  lightly,  and  in  the  innermost  recesses 
of  her  heart  the  Popadya  even  secretly  rejoiced  thereat: 
she  was  still  doubtful  of  her  great  good  fortune,  and  all 
these  calamities  seemed  to  be  a  premium  which  she  was 
glad  to  pay  for  its  assurance.  She  felt  that  if  the  prize 
hog  fattened  at  such  expense  had  died  on  her  hands,  if 
Nastya  ailed  so  persistently,  if  anything  else  went  wrong 
and  caused  repining,  then  no  one  would  dare  to  lay  a 
finger  on  her  coming  son  or  to  harm  him.  But  as  for  him, 
why,  she  would  give  up  not  only  the  whole  household 


*)  i  pood    =  36  Ibs. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  177 

and  her  little  daughter  Nastya,  but  even  her  own  body 
and  soul  would  she  gladly  yield  to  that  relentless  unseen 
one  who  clamored  for  continual  sacrifices. 

She  had  improved  in  looks  and  ceased  even  to  fear 
Ivan  Porfyritch  himself,  and  as  she  walked  to  her  ac 
customed  place  in  church  she  proudly  paraded  her 
rounded  form  and  looked  about  with  daring  and  self- 
reliant  glances.  And  lest  she  should  harm  the  babe  in 
her  womb,  she  had  stopped  all  housework  and  was  pass 
ing  daily  long  hours  in  the  neighboring  fiscal  forest, 
amusing  herself  by  picking  mushrooms.  She  was  in 
mortal  terror  of  the  ordeal  of  birth,  and  resorted  to  for 
tune  telling  with  mushrooms,  trying  to  forecast  whether 
the  birth  would  pass  off  favorably  or  not;  and  mostly 
the  answer  was  favorable.  Sometimes  under  the  impene 
trable  green  dome  of  lofty  branches,  in  some  dark  and 
"ragrant  bed  of  last  season's  leaves,  she  gathered  a  small 
family  of  little  white  mushrooms,  all  huddled  together, 
darkheaded  and  naive,  and  resembling  a  brood  of  little 
children,  and  their  appearance  evoked  in  her  keen  pangs 
of  tenderness  and  affection.  With  that  saintly  smile  pe 
culiar  to  people  who  in  solitude  yield  themselves  up  to 
truly  pure  and  noble  meditation,  she  cautiously  dug  the 
fibrous  ashen-gray  soil  around  the  roots,  and  seating  her 
self  on  the  ground  beside  her  mushrooms,  gazed  at  them 
for  a  long  time  caressingly,  a  little  pale  from  the  green 
ish  shadows  of  the  forest,  but  fair  to  look  upon,  gentle 
and  serene.  And  then  she  rose  and  walked  on  with  the 
cautious  waddling  gait  of  a  woman  on  the  eve  of  child 
birth,  and  the  ancient  forest,  the  hiding  place  of  number 
less  little  mushrooms,  seemed  to  her  a  thing  of  life,  wis 
dom  and  goodness.  Once  she  took  Nastya  along  for 
company,  but  the  child  capered,  frolicked  and  raced 
through  the  bushes  like  a  boisterous  wolf-pup  and  inter- 


178  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

fered  with  her  mother's  thoughts;  and  she  never  took 
her  again. 

And  the  winter  was  passing  quietly  and  happily.  She 
spent  her  evenings  busily  sewing  a  multitude  of  tiny 
shirts  and  swaddling  cloths,  or  pensively  stroking  the 
linen  with  her  white  fingers  upon  which  the  oil  lamp 
threw  its  bright  glow. 

She  smoothed  the  soft  fabric  and  stroked  it  with 
her  hand,  as  though  caressing  it,  thinking  the  while  in 
timate  thoughts  of  her  own,  the  wonderful  thoughts  of 
motherhood,  and  in  the  blue  reflection  of  the  lampshade 
her  beautiful  face  seemed  to  the  priest  as  though  illum 
ined  by  some  sweet  and  gentle  radiance  that  came  from 
within.  Fearing  by  some  incautious  movement  to  dis 
turb  her  beautiful  and  happy  dreams,  Father  Vassily 
softly  paced  about  the  room,  and  his  feet,  clad  in  felt 
slippers,  touched  the  floor  gently  and  noiselessly.  He  let 
his  gaze  dwell  now  on  the  living  room,  cozy  and  agree 
able  like  the  face  of  a  cherished  friend,  now  on  the  figure 
of  his  wife,  and  all  seemed  well,  just  like  in  other  people's 
homes,  and  everything  about  him  breathed  peace,  pro 
found  and  serene.  And  his  soul  was  peaceful  and  smil 
ing,  for  he  neither  saw,  nor  felt  that  from  somewhere 
there  had  fallen  the  diaphanous  shadow  of  great  grief 
and  was  now  silently  resting  on  his  forehead,  somewhere 
between  his  eyebrows.  For  even  in  these  days  of  rest 
and  peace  a  stern  and  mysterious  fate  was  hovering  over 
his  life. 

On  the  eve  of  Epiphany,  the  Popadya  gave  birth 
to  a  boy  and  he  was  named  Vassily.  His  head  was 
large  and  his  legs  were  thin  and  little,  and  there  was 
something  strangely  vacant  and  insensate  in  the  immobile 
stare  of  his  globe-shaped  eyes.  For  the  space  of  three 
years  after  the  child's  birth  the  priest  and  his  wife  lived 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  179 

'twixt  fears,  doubts  and  hopes,  but  when  three  years  had 
passed  it  became  evident  that  little  Vassya  had  been  born 
an  idiot. 

Conceived  in  madness,  he  had  come  into  the  world 
a  madman. 

IV. 

Another  year  passed  in  the  benumbed  stupefaction 
of  grief,  but  when  they  emerged  from  this  comatose  state 
and  began  to  look  about,  they  discovered  that  above 
their  thoughts  and  their  lives  sat  enthroned  the  monstrous 
image  of  the  idiot.  The  household  routine  went  on  as 
in  olden  days ;  they  built  their  fires,  they  discussed  their 
daily  affairs,  but  something  new  and  dreadful  had  come 
into  their  lives :  no  one  had  any  real  interest  in  life,  and 
all  things  were  going  to  pieces.  The  farm  hands  loafed, 
refused  to  obey  orders,  and  frequently  gave  notice  with 
out  any  apparent  cause,  and  those  who  were  hired  in 
their  place  soon  fell  into  the  same  queer  state  of  in 
difference  and  restlessness  and  commenced  to  be  in 
solent.  Dinner  was  served  either  too  late  or  too  early, 
and  someone  was  always  missing  from  the  table:  either 
the  Popadya,  or  little  Nastya,  or  Father  Vassily  himself. 
From  some  unfathomable  sources  there  appeared  an 
abundance  of  tattered  garments:  the  Popadya  kept  say 
ing  that  she  must  darn  her  husband's  socks,  and  she 
even  fussed  with  them,  but  the  socks  remained  unmended 
and  Father  Vassily  was  footsore.  And  at  night  every 
one  in  the  house  tossed  about  restlessly,  tormented  by 
vermin  which  came  crawling  from  all  crevices,  and 
shamelessly  paraded  upon  the  walls,  and  try  as  they 
might,  nothing  seemed  able  to  stop  their  loathsome  in 
vasion. 

And  wherever  they  went,  whatever  they  undertook, 


180  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

they  could  not  for  a  moment  forget,  that  there  in  the 
darkened  room  sat  one,  unexpected  and  monstrous,  the 
child  of  madness.  When  they  left  the  house  to  go  out 
doors,  they  tried  hard  to  keep  from  turning  around  or 
from  glancing  back,  but  something  compelled  them  to 
glance  back,  and  then  it  seemed  to  them  that  the  frame- 
house  itself  in  which  they  dwelt  *was  conscious  of  some 
terrible  change  within :  it  stood  there  squat  and  huddled, 
as  though  in  an  attitude  of  listening,  listening  to  that 
misshapen  and  dreadful  thing  that  was  contained  within 
its  depths,  and  all  its  bulging  windows,  its  tightly  shut 
doors  seemed  barely  able  to  supress  an  outcry  of  mortal 
anguish. 

The  Popadya  went  frequently  visiting  and  spent 
hours  at  a  stretch  in  the  house  of  the  deacon's  wife,  but 
even  there  she  failed  to  find  rest,  as  though  from  the 
idiot's  side  came  forth  threads  of  cobweb  thinness — and 
stretched  out  towards  her,  binding  her  to  him  indissolub- 
ly  and  for  all  eternity.  And  though  she  were  to  flee  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  though  she  were  to  hide  behind 
the  high  walls  of  a  nunnery,  even  though  she  were  to 
seek  escape  in  death,  then  into  the  very  gloom  of  her 
grave  those  weblike  threads  would  pursue  her  and  en 
mesh  her  with  fears  and  anguish. 

And  even  their  nights  lacked  peace :  the  faces  of  the 
sleepers  seemed  stolid,  but  within  their  skulls,  in  their 
dreams  and  waking  nightmares  the  monstrous  world  of 
madness  returned  to  life,  and  its  lord  was  this  same 
mysterious  and  dreadful  image,  half-child  and  half-brute. 

He  was  four  years  old  but  had  not  yet  learned  to 
walk  and  could  utter  but  one  word :  "give" ;  he  was  spite 
ful  and  obstinate,  and  if  anything  was  denied  him  he 
screamed  with  piercing,  ferocious  animal  cries  and 
stretched  out  his  hands  with  fingers  that  were  rapaciously 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASS1LY  181 

curved.  And  in  his  habits  he  was  as  filthy  as  an  animal, 
performing  his  bodily  functions  wherever  he  chanced  to 
be,  and  it  was  agonizing  to  attend  to  him :  with  the  cun 
ning  of  malice  he  awaited  the  moment  when  his  mother's 
or  sister's  hair  came  within  his  reach,  and  then  he  te 
naciously  clutched  at  it,  tearing  it  out  by  the  roots  in 
handfuls.  Once  he  bit  Nastya,  but  she  flung  him  back 
on  the  bed  and  beat  him  long  and  mercilessly,  as  though 
he  were  not  human,  not  a  child,  but  a  mere  piece  of 
spiteful  flesh,  and  after  this  beating  he  developed  a  fond 
ness  for  biting  and  snapped  menacingly,  showing  his 
teeth  like  a  dog. 

It  was  also  a  difficult  task  to  feed  him:  greedy  and 
impatient,  he  could  not  gauge  his  movements,  and  would 
upset  the  dish,  choking  as  he  tried  to  swallow  and  wrath- 
fully  stretching  his  curving  fingers  towards  the  feeder's 
hair.  And  his  appearance  was  repulsive  and  horrible: 
on  a  pair  of  narrow,  almost  baby-like  shoulders  rested 
a  small  skull  with  an  immense,  immobile,  broad  face, 
the  size  of  an  adult's.  There  was  something  disquieting 
and  terrifying  in  this  monstrous  incongruity  between 
face  and  body,  and  it  seemed  as  though  a  child  had  for 
some  reason  put  on  an  immense  and  repulsive  mask. 

And  the  tortured  Popadya  commenced  to  drink  as 
in  the  days  of  old.  She  drank  heavily,  to  unconscious 
ness  and  delirium,  but  even  mighty  alcohol  could  not 
release  her  from  the  iron  circle  in  the  centre  of  which 
reigned  the  horrible  and  monstrous  image  of  the  semi- 
child,  semi-beast.  And  as  of  yore  she  sought  to  find  in 
liquor  burning  sorrowful  memories  of  the  perished  first 
born,  but  the  memories  refused  to  come,  and  the  lifeless 
insensate  void  yielded  neither  image  nor  sound.  With 
every  fibre  of  her  inflamed  brain  she  strove  to  resurrect 
the  sweet  face  of  the  little  gentle  lad;  she  sang  his 


182  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

favorite  ditties;  she  imitated  his  smile;  she  pictured  to 
herself  his  agony  as  he  was  choking  and  strangling  in  the 
turbid  waters;  and  she  felt  his  nearness,  felt  the  flames 
of  the  great  and  passionately  desired  grief  blaze  up 
within  her  heart,  but  with  abrupt  swiftness — unperceived 
by  eye  or  ear — the  conjured  vision,  the  longed  for  grief, 
vanished  into  nothingness,  and  out  of  the  chilling  lifeless 
void  the  monstrous,  motionless  mask  of  the  idiot  was 
staring  into  her  eyes.  And  she  felt  as  though  she  had 
just  buried  her  little  Vassya,  buried  him  anew,  interring 
him  deeply  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  she  longed 
to  shatter  her  faithless  head  in  the  inmost  depths  of 
which  so  insolently  reigned  an  alien  and  abominable 
image. 

Terror-stricken  she  tossed  about  the  room,  calling 
her  husband: 

"Vassily!     Vassily!     Come — quick!" 

Father  Vassily  came  and  without  opening  his  mouth 
sat  down  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room;  and  he  was  un 
concerned  and  still,  as  though  there  had  been  no  out 
cry,  no  madness,  no  terror.  And  his  eyes  were  invisible ; 
but  under  the  heavy  arch  of  his  eyebrows  yawned  the 
immobile  black  of  two  sunken  spots,  and  his  haggard 
face  resembled  a  skeleton's  skull.  Leaning  his  chin  on 
his  scrawny  arm,  he  seemed  congealed  in  torpid  silence 
and  immobility,  and  remained  in  this  attitude  until  the 
Popadya  quieted  down  by  degrees.  Then  with  the  in 
tense  care  of  a  maniac  she  painstakingly  barricaded  the 
door  which  led  into  the  idiot's  room.  She  dragged  in 
front  of  it  every  table  and  chair  she  could  find,  piling 
cushions  and  clothing  upon  them,  and  still  the  barricade 
seemed  too  frail  to  suit  her.  And  with  the  strength  of 
drunkenness  she  wrenched  a  ponderous  antique  chest  of 
drawers  from  its  accustomed  place,  and  scratching  the 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  183 

floor  in  so  doing  she  dragged  it  towards  the  door. 

"Move  the  chair  aside/'  she  called  to  her  husband 
all  out  of  breath,  and  he  rose  in  silence,  cleared  the  place 
for  her  and  once  more  resumed  his  seat  in  the  corner. 

For  a  moment  the  Popadya  appeared  to  regain  her 
composure  and  sank  into  a  chair,  breathing  heavily  and 
holding  her  hand  to  her  breast,  but  in  the  next  instant 
she  sprang  to  her  feet  again,  and  flinging  back  her  dis 
heveled  hair  to  release  her  ears  she  listened  in  terror  to 
the  sounds  which  her  morbid  imagination  seemed  to  con 
jure  up  beyond  the  wall : 

"Hear  it,  Vassily?    Hear  it?" 

The  two  black  spots  gazed  upon  her  unmoved  and 
a  stolid  distant  voice  answered: 

"There's  nothing  there.  He  is  sleeping.  Calm  your 
self,  Nastya." 

The  Popadya  smiled  the  glad  and  radiant  smile  of  a 
comforted  child,  and  irresolutely  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  chair. 

"Do  you  mean  it?  Is  he  sleeping?  Did  you  see  it 
yourself?  Don't  lie,  it's  a  sin  to  tell  lies." 

"I  saw  him.    He  is  asleep." 

"But  who  is  talking  back  there?" 

"There  is  no  one  there.    You  only  imagine  it." 

And  the  Popadya  was  so  pleased  that  she  laughed 
out  loud,  shaking  her  head  in  amusement  and  warding 
off  something  with  an  uncertain  movement  of  her  hand : 
as  though  some  ill-disposed  joker  out  of  deviltry  had 
tried  to  frighten  her  and  she  had  seen  through  the  joke 
and  was  now  laughing  at  him.  But  like  a  stone  that 
falls  into  a  fathomless  abyss  her  laughter  fell  into  space 
without  evoking  an  echo  and  died  right  there  in  lone 
liness,  and  her  lips  were  still  curved  in  a  smile  while 
the  chill  of  new  terror  appeared  in  her  eyes.  And  such 


184  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASS1LY 

stillness  reigned  in  the  room  that  it  seemed  as  though 
no  one  had  ever  uttered  a  laugh  there;  from  the  scat 
tered  pillows,  from  the  overturned  chairs,  so  queer  to 
look  upon  in  their  upset  state,  from  the  ponderous  chest 
cf  drawers  so  clumsily  skulking  in  its  unwonted  posi 
tion,  from  all  sides  there  stared  upon  her  the  greedy  ex 
pectancy  of  some  dire  misfortune,  of  so'me  unknown  hor 
rors  which  no  human  had  ever  gone  through  before. 
She  turned  to  her  husband — in  the  dark  corner  she  saw 
a  dimly  grey  figure,  lanky,  erect  and  shadowy  like  a 
spectre;  she  leaned  over:  and  a  face  peered  at  her,  but 
it  was  not  with  its  eyes  that  it  peered;  these  were  hid 
den  by  the  dark  shadow  of  the  eyebrows;  it  seemed  to 
peer  at  her  with  the  white  spots  of  its  haggard  cheek 
bones  and  of  the  forehead.  She  was  breathing  fast — 
with  loud,  terrified  gasps,  and  softly  she  moaned: 

"Vassya,  I  am  afraid  of  you!  You're  so  strange... 
Come  here,  come  to  the  light!" 

Father  Vassily  obediently  moved  to  the  table,  and 
the  warm  glow  of  the  lamp  fell  upon  his  face,  but  failed 
to  evoke  a  responsive  warmth.  Yet  his  face  was  calm 
and  was  free  from  fear,  and  this  sufficed  her.  Bringing 
her  lips  close  to  his  ear,  she  whispered: 

"Priest,  do  you  hear  me,  priest?  Do  you  remember 
Vassya — that  other  Vassya?" 

"No." 

"Ah!"  joyously  exclaimed  the  Popadya.  "You  don't? 
I  don't  either.  Are  you  scared,  priest?  Are  you? 
Scared?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  do  you  groan  when  you  sleep?  Why 
do  you  groan?" 

"Just  so.     I  suppose  I  am  sick." 

The  Popadya  laughed  angrily. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  135 

"You?  Sick?  You — sick?"  with  her  finger  she  prod 
ded  his  bony,  but  broad  and  solid  chest.  "Why  do  you 
lie?" 

Father  Vassily  was  silent.  The  Popadya  looked 
wrathfully  into  his  cold  face,  with  a  beard  that  had  long 
known  no  contact  with  the  trimming  shear  and  protruded 
from  his  sunken  cheeks  in  transparent  clumps,  and  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders  with  loathing. 

"Ugh!  What  a  fright  you  have  become!  Hateful, 
mean,  clammy  like  a  frog.  Ugh!  Am  I  to  blame  that 
he  was  born  like  that?  Tell  me.  What  are  you  thinking 
about?  Why  are  you  forever  thinking,  thinking,  think- 
ing?" 

Father  Vassily  maintained  silence,  and  with  an  at 
tentive,  irritating  gaze  studied  the  bloodless  and  distorted 
features  of  his  wife.  And  when  the  last  sounds  of  her 
incoherent  speech  died  away,  gruesome,  unbroken  still 
ness  gripped  her  head  and  breast  as  though  with  iron 
clamps  and  seemed  to  squeeze  from  her  occasional  hur 
ried  and  unexpected  gasps: 

"And  I  know...  I  know...  I  know,  priest..." 

"What  do  you  know?" 

"I  know  what  are  you  thinking  about."  The  Popadya 
paused  and  shrunk  from  her  husband  in  terror.  "You— 
don't  believe...  in  God.  That's  what!" 

And  having  uttered  this  she  realized  how  dreadful 
was  what  she  had  said,  and  a  pitiful  pleading  smile  parted 
her  lips  that  were  swollen  and  scarred  with  biting,  burnt 
with  liquor  and  red  as  blood.  And  she  looked  up  gladly, 
when  the  priest,  with  blanching  cheeks,  sharply  and 
didactically  replied: 

"That  is  not  true.  I  believe  in  God.  Think  before 
you  speak." 

And  silence  once  more,  stillness  once  more,  but  now 


186  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

there  was  in  this  silence  something  soothing,  something 
that  seemed  to  envelop  her  like  a  wave  of  warm  water. 
And  lowering  her  eyes,  she  shyly  pleaded : 

"May  I  have  a  little  drink,  Vassya?  It  will  help 
me  to  go  to  sleep,  it's  getting  late,"  and  she  poured  out 
a  quarter  of  a  glassful  of  liquor,  adding  irresolutely  mor<? 
and  more  to  it,  and  draining  the  glass  to  the  bottom* 
with  little,  continuous  gulps,  with  which  women  drink 
liquor.  And  the  glow  of  warmth  returned  to  her  breast, 
she  no^v  longed  for  gaiety,  noise,  lights  and  for  the 
sound  of  loud,  human  voices. 

"Do  you  know  what  we'll  do,  Vassya?  Let's  play 
cards,  let's  play  'Fools'*).  Call  Nastya.  That  will  be 
nice.  I  love  to  play  'Fools'.  Call  her,  Vassya,  dear. 
I'll  give  you  a  kiss  for  it." 

"It  is  late.     She  is  sleeping." 
The  Popadya  stamped  the  floor  with  her  foot. 
"Wake  her.    Go !" 

Nastya  came  in,  slender  and  tall  like  her  father,  with 
large  clumsy  hands,  that  had  grown  coarse  with  toil. 
Shivering  with  the  cold,  she  had  wrapped  a  short  shawl 
about  her  shoulders  and  was  counting  the  greasy  deck 
of  cards  without  emitting  a  sound. 

Then  silently  they  sat  down  to  a  boisterously  funny 
card  game — amid  the  chaos  of  overturned  furniture,  in 
the  dead  of  night,  when  all  the  world  had  long  sought 
the  oblivion  of  sleep — men,  and  beasts  and  fields.  The 
Popadya  joked  and  laughed  and  pilfered  trumps  out  of 
the  deck,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  world  was 
laughing  and  jesting,  but  the  moment  the  last  sound  of 
her  words  died  in  the  air,  the  same  threatening  and  un 
broken  stillness  closed  over  her,  stifling  her.  And  it  was 


*)  A  Russian  card  game,  similar  to  "Old  Maid." 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  187 

terrible  to  look  upon  the  two  pairs  of  mute  and  scrawny 
arms  that  moved  slowly  and  silently  over  the  table,  as 
though  these  arms  alone  were  alive  and  the  people  who 
owned  them  did  not  exist.  Then  shivering,  as  though 
with  a  crazedly  drunken  expectation  of  something  super 
natural,  she  looked  up  above  the  table — two  cold — pallid 
— sullen  faces  loomed  desolately  in  the  darkness  and 
swayed  back  and  forth  in  a  queer  and  wordless  whirl — 
two  cold,  two  sullen  faces.  Mumbling  something,  the 
Popadya  gulped  down  another  glassful  of  liquor,  and 
once  more  the  scrawny  hands  moved  noiselessly,  and  the 
stillness  began  to  hum,  and  someone  else,  a  fourth  one 
made  his  appearance  behind  the  table.  Someone's  rapa 
ciously  curved  fingers  were  shuffling  the  cards,  then  they 
shifted  to  her  body,  running  over  her  knees  like  spiders, 
crawling  up  towards  her  throat. 

"Who's  here?"  she  cried  out  leaping  to  her  feet  and 
surprised  to  find  the  others  standing  up  and  watching 
her  with  terrified  glances.  Yes  there  were  only  two  of 
them:  her  husband  and  Nastya. 

"Calm  yourself,  Nastya.     We're  here.     There's  no 
one  else  here." 
"And  he?" 
"He  is  sleeping." 

The  Popadya  sat  down  and  for  a  moment  everything 
stopped  rocking  and  slipped  back  into  place.  And  Father 
Vassily's  face  looked  kind. 

"Vassya!  And  what  will  happen  to  us  when  he 
starts  to  walk?" 

It  was  little  Nastya  who  replied: 
"I  was  giving  him  his  supper  to-night  and  he  was 
moving  his  legs." 

"It's  not  so,"  said  the  priest,  but  his  words  sounded 
dead  and  distant,  and  all  at  once  everything  started  to 


!     188  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

circle  in  a  frenzied  whirl,  lights  and  gloom  began  to 
dance,  and  eyeless  spectres  nodded  to  her  from  every 
side.  They  rocked  to  and  fro,  blindly  they  crept  upon 
her,  tapping  her  with  curved  fingers,  tearing  her  gar 
ments,  strangling  her  by  the  throat,  plucking  her  hair 
and  dragging  her  somewhere  away.  But  she  clutched 
the  floor  with  broken  finger  nails  and  screamed  out  loud. 

The  Popadya  was  beating  her  head  against  the  floor, 
striving  impetuously  to  flee  somewhere  and  tearing  her 
clothes.  And  so  powerful  was  she  in  the  raging  frenzy 
which  seized  her  that  Father  Vassily  and  Nastya  could 
not  handle  her  unaided,  and  they  were  forced  to  sum 
mon  the  cook  and  a  laborer.  It  required  the  combined 
efforts  of  all  four  to  overpower  her;  then  they  tied  her 
arms  and  legs  with  towels  and  laid  her  on  the  bed,  and 
P'ather  Vassily  remained  with  her  alone.  He  stood 
motionless  by  the  bedside  and  watched  the  convulsive 
writhings  and  twitchings  of  her  body  and  the  tears  that 
were  flowing  from  beneath  the  tightly  shut  eyelids.  In 
a  voice  that  was  hoarse  with  screaming  she  pleaded: 

"Help!    Help!" 

Wildly  piteous  and  terrible  was  this  desolate  cry 
for  help,  and  there  was  no  response.  Darkness,  dull  and 
dispassionate,  enveloped  it  like  a  shroud,  and  in  this 
gartnent  of  the  dead  the  cry  was  dead.  The  overturned 
stools  were  kicking  up  their  legs  absurdly,  and  their  bot 
toms  blushed  with  shame.  The  ancient  chest  of  drawers 
stood  awry  and  distracted,  and  the  night  was  silent.  And 
ever  fainter,  ever  more  pitiful  sounded  this  lonely  cry  for 
help: 

"Help!  I  suffer!  Help!  Vassya,  my  darling  Vassya..." 

Father  Vassily  never  stirred  from  the  spot,  but 
with  a  cool  and  oddly  calm  gesture,  he  raised  up  his 
hands  and  clasped  his  head  even  as  his  wife  had  done 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  189 

a  half  hour  before,  and  as  calmly  and  deliberately  he 
brought  them  down  again,  and  between  his  fingers  trem 
bled  threads  of  black  and  greying  hair. 

V. 

Among  people,  mid  their  affairs  and  conversations, 
Father  Vassily  was  so  evidently  a  man  apart,  so  un- 
fathomably  alien  to  all,  that  he  did  not  seem  human  at 
all,  but  a  moving  cerement.  He  did  whatever  others  did, 
he  talked,  he  worked,  he  ate  and  drank,  but  it  seemed  at 
times  as  though  he  merely  imitated  others,  while  he 
personally  lived  in  a  different  world  that  was  inaccess 
ible  to  any.  And  all  who  saw  him  asked  themselves: 
what  is  this  man  thinking  about?  so  manifest  on  his 
every  movement  was  the  impress  of  deep  thought.  It 
was  seen  in  his  ponderous  gait,  in  the  deliberateness  of 
his  halting  speech,  when  between  two  spoken  words 
yawned  black  chasms  of  hidden  and  distant  thought;  it 
hung  like  a  heavy  film  over  his  eyes,  and  nebulous  was 
his  distant  gaze  that  faintly  glowed  beneath  his  shaggy 
overhanging  eyebrows,  ^^metimes  it  was  necessary  to 
speak  to  him  twice  before  he  heard  and  responded.  And 
sometimes  he  neglected  to  greet  others,  and  because  of 
this  some  accounted  him  haughty.  Thus  once  he  failed  to 
greet  Ivan  Porfyritch.  The  churchwarden  was  astounded 
for  a  moment,  then  hurried  back  and  overtook  the  priest 
who  was  walking  slowly. 

"You've  grown  proud,  Father!  Won't  even  greet 
a  man !"  he  said  mockingly.  Father  Vassily  looked  up 
at  him  in  surprise,  blushed  a  little  and  apologized : 

"Pardon  me,  Ivan  Porfyritch,  I  did  not  notice  you." 

The  churchwarden  attempted  to  look  down  upon 
him,  measuring  him  with  a  look  of  censure,  but  for  the 


190  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

first  time  he  realized  that  the  priest  was  the  taller  of  the 
two,  although  the  churchwarden  was  reputed  to  be  the 
tallest  man  in  the  parish.  And  the  churchwarden  found 
something  agreeable  in  this  discovery,  for  unexpectedly 
to  himself  he  invited  the  priest  to  call  on  him: 
"Come  and  see  me  some  day,  Father." 
And  several  times  he  glanced  back,  in  order  to  size 
up  the  receding  figure  of  the  priest.  Even  Father  Vassily 
was  pleased,  but  only  for  a  moment.  He  had  hardly 
taken  two  steps,  when  the  burden  of  persistent  thought, 
heavy  and  hard  like  a  millstone,  succeeded  in  stifling 
the  memory  of  the  churchwarden's  kindly  words  and 
crushed  the  quiet  and  bashful  smile  that  was  on  its  way 
to  his  lips.  And  he  lapsed  again  into  thought — think 
ing  of  God  and  of  people  and  of  the  mysterious  fate  of 
human  life. 

And  it  happened  during  confession ;  fettered  by  his 
immovable  thoughts  Father  Vassily  was  coldly  putting 
the  customary  queries  to  some  old  woman,  when  he  was 
suddenly  struck  by  an  odd  thing  which  he  had  never 
noticed  before:  there  he  stood  calmly  prying  into  the 
innermost  secret  thoughts  and  feelings  of  another,  and 
that  other  looked  up  to  him  with  awe  and  told  him  the 
truth — that  truth  which  it  is  not  given  to  anyone  else  to 
know.  And  the  wrinkled  countenance  of  the  old  woman 
r.ssumed  a  peculiar  expression,  it  became  brightly  radi 
ant,  as  though  the  darkness  of  night  reigned  all  around, 
but  the  light  of  day  was  falling  on  that  face  alone.  And 
suddenly  he  interrupted  her  and  asked: 
"Art  thou  telling  the  truth,  woman?" 
But  what  the  old  woman  answered  he  heard  not. 
The  mist  had  departed  from  before  his  face,  with  flush 
ing  eyes — as  though  a  bandage  had  fallen  from  them — 
he  was  gazing  in  amazement  upon  the  face  of  the  woman, 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  191 

and  it  seemed  to  him  to  bear  a  peculiar  expression: 
clearly  outlined  upon  it  was  some  mysterious  truth  of 
God  and  of  life.  On  the  old  woman's  head,  beneath  an 
openwork  kerchief,  Father  Vassily  noticed  a  parting  line, 
a  narrow  grey  strip  of  skin  running  through  hair  that 
was  carefully  combed  on  either  side  of  it.  And  this  part 
ing  line,  this  absurd  care  for  an  ugly,  aged  head  that 
nobody  else  had  any  use  for,  was  likewise  a  truth :  the 
sorrowful  truth  of  the  ever  lonely,  ever  sorrowful  human 
existence.  And  it  was  then,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  of  forty  years,  that  Father  Vassily  became  aware 
with  his  eyes  and  with  his  hearing  and  with  every  one 
of  his  senses  that  beside  him  there  were  other  creatures 
on  earth' — creatures  that  were  like  him,  having  their  own 
lives,  their  own  sorrows,  their  own  fates. 

"And  hast  thou  children  ?"  hurriedly  he  inquired,  in 
terrupting  the  old  woman  again. 

"They're  all  dead,  Father!" 

"All  dead?"  inquired  the  priest  in  surprise. 

"All  dead,"  she  repeated  and  her  eyes  became  blood 
shot. 

"And  how  dost  thou  live?"  inquired  Father  Vassily 
in  amazement. 

"How  should  I  live?"  cried  the  woman.  "I  live  by 
alms." 

Stretching  out  his  neck,  Father  Vassily  from  the 
height  of  his  immense  stature  riveted  his  gaze  upon  the 
old  woman  but  did  not  utter  a  sound.  And  his  long, 
scraggy  face,  fringed  by  his  disheveled  hair,  seemed  so 
strange  and  terrible  to  the  woman  that  she  was  chilled 
to  the  tips  of  the  fingers  which  she  was  holding  clasped 
before  her  breast. 

"Go  now,"  sounded  a  stern  voice  above  her. 

Strange  days  commenced  now  for  Father  Vassily, 


192  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

and  something  unwonted  was  going  on  in  his  mind; 
hitherto  only  this  had  been  ;  there  had  existed  a  tiny  earth 
whereon  lived  only  the  enormous  figure  of  Father  Vassily. 
Other  people  did  not  seem  to  exist.  But  now  the  earth 
had  grown,  had  become  unfathomably  big,  peopled  all 
over  with  creatures  like  Father  Vassily.  There  was  a 
multitude  of  them,  each  living  an  individual  existence, 
suffering  individual  sufferings,  hoping  and  doubting  in 
dividually,  and  among  them  Father  Vassily  felt  like  a 
lonely  tree  in  a  field  about  which  suddenly  an  immense 
and  trackless  forest  had  grown.  Gone  was  the  solitude ; 
and  with  it  the  sun  and  the  bright  desert  distances,  and 
the  gloom  of  the  night  had  grown  in  intensity. 

All  the  people  gave  him  truth.  When  he  did  not 
hear  their  truthful  utterances,  he  saw  their  homes  and 
their  faces :  and  upon  homes  and  faces  was  engraved  the 
inexorable  truth  of  life.  He  sensed  this  truth,  but  he 
was  unable  to  grasp  and  name  it  and  he  eagerly  sought 
new  faces  and  new  words.  Few  came  to  confession  dur 
ing  the  fast  days  of  Advent,  but  he  kept  them  in  the  con 
fessional  for  hours  at  a  time,  examining  each  one 
searchingly,  insistently,  stealing  himself  into  the  most 
intimate  nooks  of  the  soul  where  man  himself  looks  in 
but  rarely  and  with  awe.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was 
searching  for  and  he  mercilessly  plowed  up  everything 
that  the  soul  rests  on  and  lives  by.  In  his  questions  he 
was  pitiless  and  shameless,  and  each  thought  which  he 
conceived  was  a  stranger  to  fear.  But  it  did  not  take  him 
long  to  realize  that  all  these  people  who  were  telling  him 
the  whole  truth,  as  though  he  were  God,  were  themselves 
ignorant  of  the  truth  of  life.  Back  of  their  myriads  of 
trifling,  severed,  hostile  truths  he  dimly  saw  the  shadowy 
outlines  of  the  one  great  and  all-solving  truth.  Everyone 
was  conscious  of  it,  everyone  longed  for  it,  yet  none 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  193 

could  define  it  with  a  human  word — that  overwhelming 
truth  of  God  and  of  people,  and  of  the  mysterious  fates 
cf  human  life. 

And  Father  Vassily  himself  began  to  sense  it,  and 
he  sensed  it  now  a^  despair  and  frenzied  fear,  now  as 
pity,  wrath  and  hope.  And  as  heretofore,  he  was  stern 
and  cold  to  look  upon,  while  his  mind  and  his  heart  were 
already  melting  in  the  fire  of  unknown  truth  and  a  new 
life  was  entering  his  old  body. 

On  the  Tuesday  of  the  week  preceding  Christmas, 
Father  Vassily  had  returned  from  the  church  rather  late. 
In  the  dark  cold  vestibule  someone's  hand  arrested  him 
and  a  hoarse  voice  whispered: 

"Vassily,  don't  go  inside." 

By  the  note  of  terror  in  her  voice  he  recognized  his 
wife  and  stopped. 

"I've  been  waiting  an  hour  for  you,  I'm  all  frozen," 
?.nd  her  teeth  chattered  with  the  cold. 

"What  has  happened?     Come." 

"No.  No.  Listen,  Nastya!  I  came  in  and  found 
her  standing  before  the  mirror,  making  faces  just  like 
him,  waving  her  hands  like  him." 

"Come." 

By  main  force  he  dragged  the  resisting  Popadya 
into  the  living  room,  and  there,  looking  around  in  fear, 
she  told  him  more.  While  on  her  way  into  the  living 
room  to  water  the  plants  she  had  found  Nastya,  stand 
ing  still  before  the  mirror,  and  in  the  mirror  she  had 
seen  the  reflection  of  her  face,  not  as  it  always  looked, 
but  oddly  idiotic,  with  a  savagely  contorted  mouth  and 
squinting  eyes.  Then,  still  in  silence,  Nastya  raised  up 
her  hands,  and  curving  her  fingers  convulsively  like  the 
idiot,  she  stretched  them  out  towards  her  own  reflection 
in  the  mirror — and  everything  was  so  still,  and  all  this 


194  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

was  so  terrible  and  unreal  that  the  Popadya  screamed 
and  dropped  her  water  pot.  And  Nastya  ran  away.  And 
row  she  did  not  know  whether  it  had  really  happened 
or  her  own  imagination  had  been  playing  a  trick  on  her. 

"Call  Nastya  and  step  out!"  ordered  the  priest. 

Nastya  came  and  stopped  on  the  threshold.  Her 
face  was  long  and  scraggy  like  her  father's,  and  when 
she  was  talking  she  copied  his  posture:  her  neck  ex 
tended,  inclined  a  little  to  one  side,  looking  sullenly 
askance  from  beneath  her  eyebrows.  And  she  held  her 
hands  behind  her  back  just  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
doing. 

"Nastya,  why  do  you  do  these  things?"  firmly,  but 
calmly  inquired  Father  Vassily. 

"What  things?" 

"Mother  sa$w  you  near  the  mirror.  Why  did  you  do 
that?  He  is  sick." 

"No,  he  is  not  sick,  he  pulls  my  hair." 

"Why  do  you  imitate  him?  Do  you  like  a  face  like 
his?" 

Nastya  stood  sullenly  with  downcast  eyes. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  And  then  with  a 
queer  look  of  candor  she  looked  into  her  father's  eyes 
and  resolutely  added:  "Yes,  I  like  it." 

Father  Vassily  looked  at  her  searchingly  but  did 
not  say  a  word. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  semi-affirmatively  inquired 
Nastya. 

"No." 

"Then  why  do  you  keep  thinking  about  him?  I 
would  kill  him  if  I  were  you." 

And  it  seemed  to  Father  Vassily  that  even  then  she 
was  making  a  face  like  the  idiot:  something  dull  and 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  195 

brutish  flitted  over  her  cheeks  and  drew  her  eyes  to 
gether. 

"Go!"  he  sternly  commanded.  But  Nastya  did  not 
move  and  with  the  same  queerly  candid  expression  she 
kept  on  gazing  straight  into  her  father's  eyes.  And  her 
face  no  longer  resembled  the  repulsive  mask  of  the 
idiot. 

"But  you  never  think  of  me,"  she  observed  simply, 
as  though  expressing  an  abstract  truth. 

And  then,  in  the  gathering  gloom  of  the  wintry 
dusk,  there  occurred  between  these  two — who  were  so 
like,  yet  so  unlike  one  another — a  brief  and  curious 
dialog: 

"You  are  my  daughter.  Why  did  I  know  nothing 
about  it?  Do  you  know?" 

"No." 

"Come  and  kiss  me." 

"I  don't  want  to." 

"Don't  you  love  me?" 

"No,  I  love  nobody." 

"Even  as  I,"  and  the  priest's  nostrils  extended  with 
repressed  laughter. 

"Don't  you  love  anybody  either?  And  how  about 
mama?  She  drinks  so  much.  I'd  kill  her  too." 

"And  me?" 

"No,  not  you.  You  talk  to  me  at  least.  I  feel  sorry 
for  you  sometimes.  It  must  be  very  hard,  don't  you 
know,  when  your  son  is  a  silly.  He  is  terribly  mean. 
'Vou  don't  begin  to  know  how  mean  he  is.  He  eats 
cockroaches  alive.  I  gave  him  a  dozen  and  he  ate  them 
all  up." 

Without  moving  away  from  the  door  she  sat  down 
on  the  corner  of  a  chair,  cautiously,  like  a  scullery  maid, 
folded  her  hands  on  her  knees  and  waited. 


196  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

"It's  a  weary  life,  Nastya,"  pensively  said  the  priest. 

Unhurriedly  and  importantly  she  agreed  with  him: 

"It  certainly  is." 

"And  do  you  pray  to  God?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  Only  at  night,  in  the  morning 
there  is  too  much  work,  I  have  no  time.  I  must  sweep, 
make  up  beds,  put  things  in  order,  wash  the  dishes,  get 
tea  for  Vasska*),  serve  it  to  him,  you  know  yourself  how 
much  work  that  is." 

"Just  like  a  servant  maid,"  said  Father  Vassily  in 
definitely. 

"What  did  you  say?"  said  Nastya  uncomprehend- 
ingly. 

Father  Vassily  bowed  low  his  head  and  maintained 
silence.  Immense  and  black  he  loomed  against  the  dull 
white  background  of  the  window,  and  his  words  seemed 
to  Nastya  round  and  shiny  like  glass  beads.  She  waited 
long,  but  her  father  was  silent  and  she  called  out  timid 
ly: 

"Papa!" 

Without  raising  his  head  Father  Vassily  command- 
ingly  waived  his  hand,  once,  then  the  second  time. 
Nastya  sighed  and  rose,  but  hardly  had  she  turned  in 
the  doorway  when  something  rustled  behind  her  and 
two  powerful,  sinewy  arms  raised  her  up  in  the  air  and 
a  mocking  voice  whispered  in  her  very  ear: 

"Put  your  arms  around  my  neck.     I'll  carry  you." 

"Why?    I  am  big." 

"No  matter.     Hold  fast." 

It  was  hard  work  breathing  in  the  embrace  of  two 
arms  that  were  holding  her  like  hoops  of  iron,  and  she 
had  to  duck  her  head  in  the  doorway  in  order  not  to 


*)  Contemptuous  diminutive  for  Vassily. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  197 

knock  against  the  transom;  she  did  not  know  whether 
she  was  pleased  or  merely  surprised.  And  she  did  not 
know  whether  she  merely  imagined  it  or  her  father  had 
really  whispered  into  her  ear: 

"You  must  be  sorry  for  mama." 

But  after  she  had  said  her  prayers  and  was  getting 
ready  for  bed,  Nastya  sat  for  a  long  while  on  her  bed, 
lost  in  musing.  Her  slim  little  back  with  the  pointed 
shoulder  blades  and  the  distinctly  marked  vertebrae  was 
almost  humped;  the  soiled  nightshirt  had  slipped  from 
the  angular  shoulder ;  folding  her  hands  about  her  knees 
and  rocking  back  and  forth,  she  resembled  a  ruffled  bird 
that  was  overtaken  in  the  field  by  the  frost.  She  was 
staring  straight  ahead  with  unblinking  eyes  that  were 
plain  and  enigmatic  like  the  eyes  of  a  beast.  And  with 
pensive  obstinacy  she  whispered: 

"And  still  I'd  kill  her." 

Late  at  night,  when  everyone  was  asleep,  Father 
Vassily  silently  stole  into  the  room,  and  his  face  was 
cold  and  austere.  Without  casting  a  glance  at  Nastya, 
he  set  the  lamp  down  on  the  table  and  bent  over  the 
calmly  sleeping  idiot.  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  his 
misshapen  chest  stretched  out,  his  arms  spread  out;  his 
little  shriveled  head  had  fallen  back,  and  its  receding 
chin  gleamed  white.  As  he  lay  sleeping,  under  the  pale 
reflected  light  which  was  falling  upon  him  from  the 
ceiling,  his  face,  with  the  closed  eyelids  hiding  his  wit 
less  eyes,  did  not  seem  as  horrible  as  in  the  daytime. 
It  seemed  wearied,  like  the  face  of  an  actor  exhausted 
after  playing  a  difficult  part,  and  around  his  tightly  shut 
enormous  mouth  lay  the  shadow  of  stern  grief.  It  was 
as  though  there  were  in  him  two  souls,  and  while  one 
was  sleeping,  the  other  was  wakeful — all-knowing  and 
sorrowful. 


198  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASS1LY 

Father  Vassily  straightened  up  slowly,  and  main 
taining  an  austere  and  stolid  expression,  walked  out  and 
proceeded  to  his  room  without  casting  a  glance  at 
Nastya.  He  was  walking  slowly  and  calmly,  with  the 
ponderous  and  lifeless  stride  of  profound  meditation,  and 
the  darkness  scattered  before  him,  hiding  behind  him  in 
deep  shadows  and  cunningly  pursuing  him  at  his  heels. 
His  face  was  shining  brightly  in  the  light  of  the  latnp 
and  his  eyes  were  gazing  fixedly  into  the  distance,  far 
ahead,  into  the  very  depths  of  fathomless  space,  while 
his  feet  slowly  and  clumsily  pursued  their  automatic 
march. 

It  was  late  at  night  and  the  second  cocks  had 
crowed. 

VI. 

Lent  had  arrived.  The  muffled  churchbell  com 
menced  its  monotonous  tinkle,  but  its  wan,  melancholy, 
modest  sounds  of  summons  could  not  dispel  the  wintry 
stillness  which  wras  lying  over  snow-covered  fields. 
Timidly  they  leaped  from  the  belfry  into  the  misty  air 
below,  and  sank  and  died,  and  for  a  long  time  nobody 
came  to  the  little  church  in  response  to  its  appeal — faint 
at  first,  but  persistent  and  growing  more  imperious  every 
day. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  first  week  of  Lent  two  old 
women  came  to  church — hoary  they  were,  hazy  and  deaf 
like  the  very  air  of  the  dying  winter,  and  for  a  long  time 
they  mumbled  with  toothless  mouths,  repeating,  forever 
over  and  over  repeating  their  dull,  uncouth  plaints 
which  had  no  beginning  and  knew  no  end.  Their  very 
words  and  tears  seemed  to  have  grown  aged  in  service 
and  ready  for  rest.  They  had  received  absolution,  but 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  199 

tLey  failed  to  realize  it,  and  were  still  praying  for  some 
thing-,  deaf  and  hazy  like  fragments  of  a  vapid  dream. 
But  in  their  wake  came  a  throng  of  people,  and  many 
youthful,  fervid  tears,  many  youthful  words,  pointed  and 
gleaming,  cut  their  way  into  Father  Vassily's  heart. 

When  Semen  Mossyagin,  a  peasant,  had  thrice 
bowed  to  the  ground,  and  cautiously  advanced  towards 
the  priest,  the  latter  gazed  upon  him  sharply  and  fixedly, 
but  the  pose  which  he  maintained  did  not  seem  to  befit 
the  occasion. 

With  his  neck  extended,  his  hands  folded  across 
his  chest,  he  was  tugging  at  the  end  of  his  beard  with 
the  fingers  of  one  hand.  Mossyagin  walked  up  to  the 
priest  and  was  astounded:  the  priest  was  watching  him 
and  smiling  softly  with  nostrils  distended  like  a  horse. 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  thee  for  a  long  time,"  said 
the  priest  with  a  snicker.  "Why  hast  thou  come,  Mos 
syagin  ?" 

"For  confession,"  quickly  and  eagerly  replied  Mos 
syagin  and  with  a  friendly  grin  exposed  his  white  teeth 
— they  were  white  and  even  like  a  string  of  pearls. 

"Wilt  thou  feel  better  after  confession?"  continued 
the  priest,  smiling,  as  it  seemed  to  the  peasant,  in  a 
merry  and  friendly  fashion. 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"And  is  it  true  that  thou  hast  sold  thy  horse  and  the 
last  sheep  and  mortgaged  thy  wagon?" 

Mossyagin  looked  at  the  priest  seriously  and  with 
a  show  of  annoyance:  the  priest's  face  was  stolid,  his 
eyes  were  downcast.  Neither  broke  the  silence.  Father 
Vassily  turned  slowly  towards  the  lectern  and  com 
manded  : 

"Tell  thy  sins." 

Mossyagin  coughed,  assumed  a  devotional  expres- 

\ 


200  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

sion,  and  cautiously  inclining  his  head  and  his  chest  to 
wards  the  priest  began  to  speak  in  a  loud  whisper.  And 
\\hile  he  spoke,  the  priest's  face  became  more  and  more 
forbidding  and  solemn,  as  though  it  had  turned  to  stone 
under  the  hail  of  the  peasant's  painful  and  constraining 
words.  His  breath  came  fast  and  heavy  as  though  chok 
ing  in  that  senseless,  dull  and  savage  something  which 
was  called  the  life  of  Semen  Mossyagin  and  which 
seemed  to  grip  him  as  though  in  the  black  coils  of  some 
mysterious  serpent.  It  was  as  though  the  stern  law  of 
causality  had  no  dominion  over  this  humble  but  phan- 
tastic  existence :  so  unexpectedly,  with  such  clownish 
absurdity  there  were  linked  in  it  trivial  transgressions 
and  unmeasured  suffering,  a  mighty,  an  elemental  will 
to  a  mighty  elemental  creativeness  and  a  monstrously 
vegetating  existence  somewhere  in  No-man's  land  be 
tween  life  and  death.  Endowed  with  a  fine  mind  that 
slightly  inclined  to  sarcasm,  strong  in  body  like  a  fero 
cious  beast,  enduring  as  though  fully  three  hearts  beat 
in  his  breast,  so  that  when  one  of  the  three  died,  the 
ethers  gave  life  to  a  new  one, — he  seemed  capable  of 
overturning  the  very  earth  upon  which  firmly,  though 
clumsily  were  planted  his  feet.  But  in  reality  what  hap 
pened?  He  was  forever  on  the  verge  of  starvation,  as 
were  his  wife,  his  children,  his  cattle ;  and  his  bedimmed 
mind  reeled  drunkenly  as  though  unable  to  find  the  door 
of  its  own  abode.  Desperately  straining  every  effort  in 
an  endeavor  to  build  up  something,  to  create  something, 
he  merely  fell  sprawling  into  the  dust,  and  his  work  col 
lapsed  and  disintegrated,  rewarding  him  with  a  mock 
and  a  sneer.  He  was  a  man  of  compassion,  and  had 
adopted  an  orphan,  and  everybody  scolded  him;  and  the 
orphan  lived  awhile  and  died  of  constant  malnutrition 
?nd  illness,  and  then  lie  began  to  scold  himself  and  ceased 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  201 

to  understand  whether  it  was  the  right  thing  to  be  com 
passionate  or  not.  It  seemed  as  though  the  tears  should 
never  dry  in  the  eyes  of  so  unfortunate  a  man,  or  that 
the  outcries  of  wrath  and  resentment  should  never  die 
upon  his  lips,  but  strange  to  say  he  was  always  good- 
natured  and  cheerful,  and  even  his  beard  seemed  some 
how  absurdly  gay;  blazing  red  it  was,  with  each  hair 
seemingly  awhirl  and  agog  in  an  interminable  whimsical 
dance.  And  he  even  took  part  in  the  village  choral  dances 
with  the  young  lads  and  lassies,  singing  the  melancholy 
folksongs  with  a  high  tremolo  voice  that  brought  tears 
to  the  eyes  of  the  hearers,  while  on  his  own  lips  played 
a  smile  of  gentle  sarcasm. 

And  his  sins  were  so  trivial  and  formal :  a  surveyor 
whom  he  had  driven  to  the  nearest  village — Petrovki — 
had  offered  him  a  meatpie  on  a  fast  day,  and  he  had 
eaten  of  it ;  and  in  confessing  he  dwelt  as  long  upon  this 
transgression  as  though  he  had  committed  a  murder ;  and 
the  year  before,  just  before  communion,  he  had  smoked 
a  cigarette  and  this  too  he  described  at  great  length  and 
with  agonized  anguish. 

"That's  all!"  finally  said  Mossyagin,  in  a  cheery 
voice,  and  wiped  the  prespiration  from  his  brow. 

Father  Vassily  slowly  turned  his  haggard  face  to 
him: 

"And  who  helpeth  thee?" 

"Who  helps  me?"  repeated  Mossyagin.  "Nobody. 
It's  a  scant  fare  for  us  villagers,  you  know  that  yourself. 
Still  Ivan  Porfyritch  helped  me  out  once,"  the  peasant 
winked  slyly  at  the  priest:  "he  gave  me  three  poods  of 
flour,  and  promised  four  more  towards  fall." 

"And  God?" 

Semen  sighed  and  his  face  grew  sad. 

"God?    I  daresay  I'm  undeserving." 


202  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

The  priest's  superfluous  questions  were  beginning  to 
annoy  Mossyagin.  He  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  empty  church,  carefully  counted  the  hairs  in  the 
priest's  sparse  beard,  surveyed  his  half-rotted  teeth  and 
it  occurred  to  him  that  the  priest  might  have  spoilt  them 
by  eating  too  much  sugar.  And  he  heaved  a  sigh. 

"What  art  thou  waiting  for?" 

"What  I  am  waiting  for?  What  should  I  be  wait 
ing  for?" 

And  silence  again.  It  was  dark  and  cold  in  the 
church,  and  the  chilly  air  was  stealing  under  the  peas 
ant's  blouse. 

"And  must  it  go  on  like  this  always?"  asked  the 
priest,  and  his  words  sounded  listless  and  distant  like 
the  thud  of  the  earth  thrown  into  the  grave  upon  the 
lowered  coffin. 

"And  must  it  go  on  like  this  always?"  repeated 
Mossyagin  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  own  words.  And 
all  that  had  passed  in  his  life  rose  before  him  again: 
the  hungry  faces  of  the  children,  the  reproaches,  the  kill 
ing  toil,  the  dull  heartache  that  makes  one  long  to 
drink  and  fight;  and  so  it  must  go  on,  for  a  long  time, 
all  through  life — until  death  steps  in.  Blinking  his 
white  eyelashes,  Mossyagin  cast  a  teardimmed  misty 
glance  upon  the  priest  and  met  his  sharp  and  blazing 
gaze — and  in  this  exchange  of  glances  they  recognized 
an  intimate  sorrowful  kinship.  An  instinctive  movement 
drew  them  together,  and  Father  Vassily  laid  his  hand 
on  the  peasant's  shoulder:  lightly  and  gently  it  rested 
upon  it  like  a  cobweb  in  autumn  time.  Mossyagin's 
shoulder  quivered  affectionately,  he  lifted  up  his  eyes 
trustingly,  and  pitifully  smiling  with  a  corner  of  his 
mouth  he  said: 

"But  like  as  not  it  may  ease  up!" 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  203 

The  priest  removed  his  hand  imperceptibly  and  was 
silent.  The  peasant's  white  eyelashes  blinked  faster  and 
faster,  the  little  hairs  in  the  blazing  red  beard  danced 
ever  more  merrily,  while  his  tongue  babbled  something 
unintelligible  and  incoherent: 

"No.    I  dare  say  it  wont'  ease  up.    You're  right." 

But  the  priest  did  not  suffer  him  to  finish.  He 
stamped  his  foot  with  repressed  emotion,  seared  the 
peasant  with  a  wrathful,  hostile  glance,  and  hissed  at 
him  like  an  angry  adder: 

"Don't  weep !  Don't  dare  to  weep.  Oh,  why  do  they 
blubber  like  senseless  calves?  What  can  I  do?"  he 
prodded  his  chest  with  his  finger.  "What  can  I  do? 
Am  I  God,  am  I?  Ask  HIM!  Ask  HIM!  Ask  HIM! 
I  tell  thee." 

He  pushed  the  peasant's  shoulder. 

"Down  on  thy  knees." 

Mossyagin  knelt. 

"Pray." 

Behind  him  loomed  the  walls  of  the  deserted  and 
gloomy  church,  above  him  rang  the  angered  voice  of  the 
priest:  "Pray!  Pray!",  and  without  rendering  account 
to  himself  of  his  actions,  Mossyagin  commenced  to  cross 
himself  swiftly,  touching  the  ground  with  his  forehead. 
And  the  swift  and  monotonous  movements  of  his  head, 
the  extraordinary  nature  of  the  penance,  the  conscious 
ness  of  being  at  that  very  instant  subject  to  some  power 
ful  and  mysterious  will — filled  the  mind  of  the  peasant 
v/ith  awe  and  at  the  same  time  with  a  peculiar  sense  of 
relief. 

For  in  this  very  awe  before  something  mighty  and 
austere  was  born  the  hope  of  intercession  and  mercy. 
And  ever  more  frantically  he  was  pressing  his  brow  to 
the  cold  floor,  when  the  priest  abruptly  commanded : 


204  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

"Arise!" 

Mossyagin  arose,  made  his  obeisance  to  the  nearest 
images,  and  the  fiery-red  hairs  of  his  beard  whirled  and 
danced  willingly  and  cheerfully  when  he  again  approach 
ed  the  priest.  Now  he  was  sure  that  he  would  find  relief 
and  he  calmly  awaited  further  commands. 

But  Father  Vassily  merely  measured  him  with  a 
sternly  curious  glance  and  pronounced  the  absolution. 
On  his  way  out  of  the  church  Mossyagin  looked  back: 
still  in  the  same  spot  stood  the  nebulous  figure  of  the 
priest,  the  faint  glimmer  of  a  wax  taper  could  not  fully 
outline  it,  and  it  loomed  black  and  immense  as  though 
it  had  no  definite  contours  and  limits  but  was  merely 
a  particle  of  the  gloom  which  was  filling  the  church. 

Communicants  were  now  flocking  daily  in  increasing 
numbers  to  the  confessional  and  numberless  faces,  both 
wrinkled  and  youthful,  alternated  before  Father  Vas 
sily  in  wearisome  procession.  He  quizzed  them  all  in 
sistently  and  severely,  and  timid,  incoherent  speeches 
were  poured  into  his  ears  by  the  hour,  and  the  purport 
of  each  speech  was  suffering,  terror  and  a  great  ex 
pectation.  All  united  in  condemning  life,  but  none  seem 
ed  anxious  to  die,  and  everybody  appeared  to  be  wait 
ing  for  something,  and  this  expectation  seemed  to  have 
been  handed  down  as  an  inheritance  from  the  father 
of  the  race.  It  had  passed  through  minds  and  hearts 
long  since  vanished  from  the  world,  and  for  this  rea 
son  it  was  so  imperious  and  potent.  And  it  had  be 
come  bitter,  for  on  its  way  it  had  absorbed  all  the 
grief  of  hope  unrealized,  all  the  bitterness  of  faith  de 
ceived,  all  the  consuming  anguish  of  infinite  desolation. 
The  blood  of  all  hearts,  living  and  dead,  had  nourished 
its  roots,  and  it  had  branched  out  over  the  whole  of 
life  like  a  great  and  mighty  tree.  And  losing  himself 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  205 

among  these  souls  like  a  wanderer  in  the  forest  pri 
meval,  he  was  also  forgetting  his  own  pent-up  suffer 
ings  which  had  crowned  his  head  with  a  stern  sorrow, 
and  he  too  began  to  wait  for  something  with  a  stern 
impatience. 

He  did  not  wish  now  for  human  tears,  but  they 
were  flowing  irrepressibly,  overruling  his  will,  and  every 
tear  was  a  demand,  and  they  all  penetrated  his  heart 
like  poisoned  arrows.  And  with  the  dim  sense  of  ap 
proaching  horror  he  began  to  comprehend  that  he  was 
not  the  master  of  men,  not  even  their  neighbor,  but 
their  servant,  their  slave,  that  the  eyes  of  a  great  ex 
pectation  were  seeking  him,  were  commanding  him, 
were  summoning  him.  And  ever  oftener  he  admonished 
them  with  repressed  wrath : 

"Ask  HIM!     Ask  HIM!" 

And  he   turned   his  back  upon   them. 

But  at  night  the  living  people  took  on  the  guise 
of  diaphanous  shadows  and  walked  by  his  side  in  a 
silent  throng,  invading  his  very  thoughts,  and  they  made 
«i  transparency  of  the  walls  of  his  house  and  a  mock 
of  the  locks  and  the  bars  on  its  doors.  And  agonized, 
\veirdly  phantastic  were  the  dreams  that  unrolled  like 
a  flaming  band  beneath  his  skull. 


It  was  in  the  fifth  week  of  Lent,  when  the  breath 
of  sprng  wafted  its  fragrance  over  the  fields  and  the 
dusk  was  blue  and  diaphanous,  that  the  Popadya  had 
started  on  another  drunken  debauch.  She  had  been 
drinking  heavily  for  four  days  at  a  stretch,  screaming 
\\ith  terror  and  struggling,  and  on  the  fifth  day — it 
was  Saturday — towards  evening,  she  put  out  the  little 
oil  lamp  before  the  saint's  image  in  her  room,  twisted 


206  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

a  towel  into  a  noose  and  tried  to  strangle  herself.  But 
the  moment  the  noose  had  begun  to  stifle  her  she  be 
came  frightened  and  cried  out,  and  Father  Vassily 
came  running  with  little  Nastya  and  released  her.  It 
all  ended  in  mere  fright.  Nor,  indeed,  had  there  been 
any  danger,  for  the  noose  was  clumsily  tied  and  it  was 
impossible  to  be  strangled  in  it.  But  more  frightened 
than  all  was  the  Popadya  herself.  She  wept  and 
pleaded  to  be  forgiven;  her  arms  and  legs  were  trem 
bling,  her  head  shook  as  with  palsy;  the  whole  evening 
she  kept  her  husband  by  her  side  and  clung  closely 
to  him.  The  extinguished  oil  lamp  in  her  room  was 
lighted  again  at  her  own  request,  and  other  oil  lamps 
before  each  holy  image,  and  it  looked  like  the  eve  of 
some  great  church  festival.  After  the  first  moment  of 
excitement  Father  Vassily  had  regained  his  composure 
and  was  now  coldly  amiable,  even  jocular.  He  related 
a  very  amusing  incident  of  his  seminary  days,  and  then 
his  memory  strolled  back  into  the  dim  past  of  his  early 
boyhood  and  he  told  about  his  escapades  in  stealing 
apples  in  company  with  other  youngsters.  And  it  was 
so  difficult  to  imagine  a  watchman  leading  him  away 
by  the  ear,  that  Nastya  refused  to  believe  or  laugh, 
although  Father  Vassily  himself  was  laughing  with  a 
gentle,  childlike  laughter  and  his  face  looked  truthful 
2nd  good. 

Little  by  little  the  Popadya  also  regained  her  com 
posure  and  ceased  to  look  askance  into  obscure  nooks, 
and  when  Nastya  had  been  sent  to  bed,  she  smiled 
gently  at  her  husband  and  inquired: 

"Were  you  scared?" 

Father  Vassily's  face  lost  its  truthful  and  kindly 
expression,  and  only  his  lips  were  smiling  as  he  re 
plied: 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  207 

"Of  course.  What  had  come  into  your  head  any 
way?" 

The  Popadya  trembled  as  though  chilled  by  a 
sudden  draught,  and  picking  with  shaking  fingers  at  the 
fringe  of  her  warm  shawl  she  said  irresolutely: 

"I  don't  know,  Vassya.  My  heart  is  so  heavy.  And 
I'm  so  afraid  of  everything.  Afraid  of  everything. 
Things  go  on  and  I  can't  make  out  how  and  why.  There 
we  have  spring,  and  summer  will  follow.  Then  again 
the  fall  and  the  winter.  And  we  shall  still  sit  as  we 
are  sitting  now,  you  in  your  corner  and  I  in  mine.  Don't 
be  angry  with  me,  Vassya.  I  realize  that  it  can't  be 
different.  And  yet..." 

She  sighed  and  continued  without  taking  her  eyes 
off  the  shawl. 

"There  was  a  time  when  I  did  not  fear  death,  I 
thought  when  things  went  very  badly  with  me,  I 
should  die.  And  now  I  even  fear  death.  What's  to 
become  of  me,  Vassya,  dear?  Must  it  be — drink 
again.  ' 

Perplexed  she  raised  her  sorowful  eyes  to  his  fa  ,e, 
and  in  them  he  read  the  pangs  of  mortal  anguish  and 
of  boundless  despair,  and  a  dull  and  humble  plea  for 
mercy.  In  the  town  where  Feeveysky  spent  his  student 
days,  he  had  seen  on  one  occasion  a  greasy  Tartar 
leading  a  horse  to  the  flaying  yeard:  it  had  broken  its 
hoof  which  was  hanging  by  a  shred  and  the  horse  was 
stepping  up  on  the  pavement  with  the  mutilated  stump 
of  the  crippled  foot;  it  was  a  cold  day  and  a  cloud 
of  white  steam  enveloped  the  horse,  but  it  walked  on 
staring  ahead  with  an  immobile  gaze,  and  its  eyes  were 
horrible  in  their  meekness.  Even  such  were  the  eyes 
of  the  Popadya.  And  he  thought  that  if  someone  were 
to  dig  a  grave,  and  fling  this  woman  into  its  depths 


208  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

burying  her  alive,  he  would  be  committing  a  kindly 
deed. 

The  Popadya  with  trembling  lips  tried  to  puff  into 
life  the  cigarette  which  had  long  since  gone  out  and 
continued : 

"And  then  again  he.  You  know  whom  I  mean.  Of 
course  he's  a  child,  and  I  feel  sorry  for  him.  But  soon 
he'll  commence  to  walk  and  he  will  be  the  death  for 
me.  And  not  a  soul  to  help.  Now  I've  complained 
to  you,  but  what  good  is  it?  I  don't  know  what  to 
do?" 

She  heaved  a  sigh  and  threw  up  her  hands  in  de 
spair.  And  in  unison  with  her  the  low  squat  room  it 
self  seemed  to  sigh,  and  the  shades  of  night  whose 
silent  throng  surrounded  Father  Vassily  whirled  about 
him  in  agony.  They  were  sobbing  in  frenzied  anguish, 
they  were  extending  their  nerveless  hands,  they  were 
pleading  for  mercy,  for  pardon,  for  truth. 

"Ah!"  responded  a  hoarse  groan  from  the  depths 
of  the  priest's  bony  chest.  He  jumped  to  his  feet,  up 
setting  the  chair  with  an  abrupt  movement,  and  began 
to  pace  the  floor  with  a  swift  stride,  shaking  his  folded 
hands,  mumbling  something,  stumbing  like  a  blind  or 
an  insane  man  against  chairs  and  against  walls.  And 
when  colliding  with  a  wall,  he  hastily  touched  it  with 
his  scrawny  fingers  and  turned  back  in  his  flight,  and 
so  he  circled  in  the  narrow  cage  of  the  room's  mute 
walls  like  a  phantastic  shade  that  had  assumed  a  grue 
some  and  weird  materialization.  But  in  an  odd  con 
trast  to  the  frantic  mobility  of  his  body,  immobile  like 
the  eyes  of  a  blind  man  were  his  eyes,  arid  in  them 
glistened  tears,  the  first  tears  which  he  had  shed  since 
Vassya's  death. 

Forgetting  her  own  self,  the  Popadya's  awestricken 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  209 

eyes  followed  the  priest  and  she  cried: 

"Vassya,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  What  is 
the  matter?" 

Father  Vassily  turned  around  abruptly,  hastily 
gained  his  wife's  side,  as  though  rushing  over  to 
trajnple  upon  her,  and  he  laid  his  heavy  and  shaking 
hand  on  her  head.  And  for  a  long,  long  time  he  silent 
ly  held  his  hand  above  her  head,  as  though  in  benedic 
tion,  as  though  warding  off  the  powers  of  evil.  And 
he  spoke  and  each  resonant  sound  that  composed  his 
words  was  a  ringing  metallic  tear: 

"Poor  little  woman;  poor  little  woman." 

And  once  more  he  resumed  his  pacing,  towering 
and  awe-inspiring  in  his  despair,  like  a  tigress  who  had 
been  robbed  of  her  young  one.  His  face  was  franti 
cally  convulsed,  and  his  shaking  lips  jerked  out  half- 
formed,  fragmentary,  infinitely  sorrowing  words: 

"Poor  woman.  Poor  woman...  Poor  people  all. 
All  weeping...  No  help...  Oh-oh-oh !" 

He  stopped  and  raising  aloft  his  immobile  eyes,  with 
his  gaze  transfixing  the  ceiling  and  the  misty  gloom  of 
the  vernal  night  beyond  it,  he  cried  out  in  a  piercing, 
frenzied  voice: 

"And  THOU  sufferest  it !  THOU  sufferest  it !  Then 
take..."  and  he  clenched  his  fist  and  shook  it  aloft,  but 
at  his  feet,  with  her  hands  wrapt  about  her  knees,  the 
Popadya  lay  writhing  in  hysterics,  and  mumbled,  chok 
ing  mid  tears  and  laughter: 

"Don't!  Don't!  Darling,  precious!  I'll  never  do 
it  again!" 

The  idiot  woke  up  and  was  howling;  Nastya  came 
running  into  the  room  in  wild  affright  and  the  jaws  of 
the  priest  set  with  a  metallic  snap. 

Silently,  and  with  seeming  indifference,  he  tended 


210  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

his  wife,  laying  her  down  on  her  bed,  and  when  she  had 
fallen  asleep  he  was  still  holding  her  hand  between  his 
two  palms,  and  thus  he  sat  until  mornig  by  her  bed 
side..  And  all  through  the  night,  until  morning,  oil  lamps 
were  burning  before  each  image,  as  though  on  the  eve 
of  a  great  and  glorious  festival. 

The  next  day  Father  Vassily  was  the  same  as  usual 
— cool  and  calm,  nor  did  he  by  a  word  recall  the  inci 
dents  of  the  day  before.  But  in  his  voice,  whenever  he 
exchanged  words  with  his  wife,  in  the  glance  with  which 
he  regarded  her  was  a  gentle  tenderness  which  only  her 
own  tormented  heart  could  appreciate.  And  so  mighty 
was  this  manly,  silent  tenderness  that  the  tormented 
heart  smiled  a  timid  smile  in  return  and  retained  the 
memory  of  this  smile  in  its  depths  like  a  cherished 
treasure.  They  conversed  but  little,  and  their  sparing 
speech  was  simple  and  commonplace;  they  were  rarely 
together — torn  asunder  by  life's  vicissitudes — but  with 
hearts  full  of  suffering  they  were  constantly  seeking  one 
another;  nor  could  any  human  being,  nor  cruel  fate  it 
self  divine  with  what  hopeless  anguish  and  tenderness 
they  loved  one  another.  Long  ago,  since  the  birth  of  the 
idiot,  they  had  ceased  living  as  man  and  wife,  and  they 
resembled  a  pair  of  devoted  unhappy  lovers  deprived 
even  of  a  hope  of  happiness,  dreaming  dreams  that  dared 
not  assume  a  definite  shape.  And  shame,  once  aban 
doned,  returned  again  into  the  heart  of  the  wife,  and 
with  it  a  desire  to  appear  attractive ;  she  blushed  when 
her  husband  saw  her  bare  arms  and  she  did  something 
to  her  face  and  her  hair  that  made  both  look  fresh  and 
youthful  and  strangely  beautiful  in  spite  of  the  sadness 
of  her  expression.  But  when  the  periodic  spells  of 
drunkenness  came  on  again,  the  Popadya  disappeared  in 
the  seclusion  of  her  darkened  room,  even  as  dogs  are 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  211 

wont  to  hide  when  they  feel  the  approach  of  madness, 
and  in  silence  and  solitude  she  fought  out  her  battle  with 
madness  and  with  the  monstrous  visions  born  of  it. 

But  every  night,  when  all  were  asleep,  the  Popadya 
stole  to  the  bedside  of  her  husband  and  made  a  sign 
of  the  cross  over  his  head  as  though  to  dispel  from  his 
brow  all  grief  and  evil  thoughts.  And  she  longed  to 
kiss  his  hand,  but  dared  not,  and  silently  retired  to  her 
room,  vanishing  in  the  darkness  like  a  dim  white  vision 
similar  to  the  nebulous  and  melancholy  apparitions 
which  hover  at  night  over  swamps  and  over  the  graves 
of  deceased  and  forgotten  people. 


VII. 


The  Lenten  bell  continued  to  send  abroad  its 
monotonous  and  somber  summons,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  with  each  muffled  knell  it  gathered  fresh  power 
over  the  consciences  of  the  village  folk.  In  ever  in 
creasing  numbers  silent  figures,  somber  as  the  sound  of 
the  tolling  church  bell,  wended  their  way  to  the  little 
church  from  every  direction.  Night  still  reigned  over 
the  denuded  fields  and  a  thin  crust  of  ice  still  spanned 
the  murmuring  brook,  when  from  every  road  and  side 
path  human  figures  appeared  marching  one  by  one,  but 
united  by  some  common  bond  into  one  solemnly  chas 
tened  procession  moving  to  the  same  invisible  goal. 

And  every  day,  from  early  morn  until  late  in  the 
evening,  Father  Vassily  was  confronted  with  a  succes 
sion  of  human  faces,  some  with  every  wrinkle  brightly 
outlined  by  the  yellow  glow  of  wax  tapers,  others  dimly 
emerging  out  of  obscure  nooks  as  though  the  very  at 
mosphere  of  the  church  had  taken  on  the  shapeof  a  human 


212  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

being  thirsting  for  mercy  and  truth.  The  people  crowded 
and  pushed,  clumsily  elbowing  one  another;  they  shuf 
fled  their  feet  heavily  as  they  dropped  to  their  knees 
with  discordant  and  asymmetric  movements ;  and  heav 
ing  deep  sighs,  with  relentless  insistence  they  laid  their 
sins  and  their  sorrows  before  the  priest. 

Each  one  had  enough  suffering  and  grief  for  a  dozen 
human  existences,  and  it  seemed  to  the  overwhelmed 
and  distracted  priest,  as  though  the  entire  living  world 
had  brought  its  tears  and  its  pangs  before  him  seeking 
his  aid,  meekly  pleading  for  it,  imperiously  clamoring 
for  it.  Once  he  had  been  searching  for  truth,  but  now 
he  was  drowning  in  it,  in  this  merciless  truth  of  suffer 
ing;  in  the  agonized  consciousness  of  impotence  he 
longed  to  die, — merely  in  order  to  escape  seeing,  hear 
ing  and  knowing.  He  had  summoned  the  woe  of  human 
ity  and  lo!  it  came  to  him.  His  soul  was  afire  like  the 
sacrificial  altar,  and  he  longed  to  put  his  arms  about 
every  one  of  the;m  with  a  fraternal  embrace,  saying: 
"poor  friend,  let  us  struggle  on  side  by  side,  let  us  to 
gether  weep  and  seek.  For  there  is  no  help  for  man  from 
anywhere." 

But  this  was  not  what  the  people,  worn  out  with 
the  struggle  of  life,  were  expecting  from  him,  and  with 
anguish,  with  wrath,  with  despair  he  kept  repeating: 

"Ask  of  HIM !    Ask  of  HIM !" 

Sorrowing  they  believed  him  and  departed,  and  in 
their  place  came  others  in  fresh  and  serried  ranks,  and 
again  he  frantically  repeated  the  terrible  and  relentless 
words : 

"Ask  of  HIM!     Ask  of  HIM!" 

And  the  hours  in  the  course  of  which  he  listened 
to  truth  seemed  to  him  as  years,  and  that  which  had  pass- 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  213 

ed  in  the  morning  before  the  confession,  appeared  dim 
and  faint  like  all  images  of  a  distant  past.  When  finally 
he  came  out  of  the  church,  being  the  last  to  leave,  dark 
ness  had  already  set  in,  the  stars  sparkled  sweetly,  and 
the  silent  air  of  the  vernal  night  seemed  like  a  tender 
caress.  But  he  had  no  faith  in  the  peace  of  the  stars; 
he  fancied  that  even  from  these  distant  worlds,  groans 
and  cries  and  broken  pleas  for  mercy  descended  upon 
him.  And  he  felt  crushed  with  a  sense  of  personal  shame 
as  though  he  himself  had  perpetrated  all  the  wicked 
ness  that  reigned  in  the  world,  as  though  he  himself  had 
caused  all  these  tears  to  flow,  had  mangled  and  torn  into 
shreds  all  these  human  hearts.  He  was  overwhelmed 
with  shame  because  of  these  downtrodden  homes  which 
he  passed  on  his  way,  he  was  ashamed  to  enter  his  own 
house  where  by  virtue  of  sin  and  of  madness  the  dread 
ful  image  of  the  semi-idiot,  semi-beast,  held  its  auto 
cratic  insolent  sway. 

And  in  the  mornings  he  walked  to  the  church  as  men 
walk  to  the  scaffold  to  meet  a  shameful  and  agonizing 
death,  with  the  whole  world  as  executioners:  the  dis 
passionate  sky,  the  hurrying,  thoughtlessly  laughing  mob 
and  his  own  relentless  inner  thoughts.  Every  suffer 
ing  person  was  his  executioner,  a  helpless  tool  of  an  all- 
powerful  God,  and  there  Were  as  many  hangmen  as  there 
were  people,  and  as  many  lashes  as  there  were  trusting 
and  expectant  hearts.  They  were  all  inexorably  insist 
ent.  No  man  thought  of  ridiculing  the  priest,  but  at  any 
moment  he  tremblingly  expected  the  outburst  of  some 
horrible  satanic  laughter  and  he  feared  to  turn  his  back 
upon  the  people.  All  that  is  brutal  and  evil  is  born  behind 
a  man's  back,  but  while  he  is  looking,  no  one  dare  attack 
him  face  to  face.  And  that  is  why  he  looked  at  them, 
worrying  them  with  his  glance,  and  frequently  turned 


214  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

his  eyes  to  the  place  behind  the  lectern  occupied  by  Ivan 
Porfyritch  Koprov,  the  churchwarden. 

The  latter  alone  talked  loudly  in  the  church  as  he 
calmly  sold  his  tapers;  and  twice  during  the  service  he 
sent  up  the  verger  and  some  boys  to  take  up  collections. 
Then  noisily  rattling  his  copper  coins,  he  piled  them  up 
in  little  heaps,  and  frequently  clicked  the  lock  of  his 
cash  box ;  when  others  knelt,  he  merely  inclined  his  head 
and  crossed  himself.  And  it  was  obvious  that  he  re 
garded  himself  as  a  man  needful  to  God,  knowing  that 
without  him  God  would  be  at  no  small  difficulty  to  ar 
range  things  as  well  as  they  were  going  and  to  keep 
them  in  proper  order. 

Since  the  beginning  of  Lent  he  had  been  very  angry 
with  Father  Vassily  because  of  the  interminable  time  he 
took  up  in  the  confessional.  He  could  not  understand 
what  great  and  interesting  sins  these  people  could  have 
that  could  make  it  worth  while  to  devote  so  much  time 
to  them.  It  was  all  due,  he  claimed,  to  the  fact  that 
Father  Vassily  knew  neither  how  to  live  himself  nor  how 
to  handle  people. 

"Dost  thou  think  they  appreciate  it?"  he  said  to  the 
good-natured  deacon  who  like  the  rest  of  the  church  of 
ficials  was  worn  out  with  the  heavy  burden  of  Lenten 
duties.  "Not  a  bit  of  it.  They  will  only  laugh  at  him." 

Father  Vassily's  stern  demeanor,  on  the  contrary, 
pleased  him,  just  as  he  had  been  pleasantly  impressed 
when  he  had  first  observed  his  towering  height.  A 
genuine  priest  and  a  servant  of  God  seemed  to  him  akin 
to  an  honest  and  efficient  steward  who  requires  an  ex 
act  and  accurate  accounting  from  those  with  whom  he 
'deals.  Ivan  Porfyritch  himself  went  to  confession  the 
last  week  in  Lent,  and  he  made  long  preparations  for  it, 
trying  to  remember  and  to  classify  all  his  small  trans- 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASS1LY  215 

gressions.  And  he  was  inordinately  proud  to  know  that 
he  kept  his  sins  in  the  same  good  order  as  his  business 
affairs. 

On  Wednesday  of  Holy  week,  when  Father  Vassily 
was  fast  losing  his  physical  strength,  an  unusually  nu 
merous  throng  had  gathered  to  confess.  The  last  man 
in  the  confessional  was  a  worthless  scamp  named  Trifon, 
a  cripple,  who  hobbled  on  crutches  from  village  to  village 
in  the  vicinity.  Instead  of  legs  which  he  had  lost  in 
some  factory  accident  and  which  had  been  trimmed  down 
to  his  loins,  he  had  a  pair  of  short  little  stumps  around 
which  a  bag  of  skin  had  formed.  His  shoulders,  raised 
up  through  the  constant  use  of  crutches  supported  a 
filthy  head  that  seemed  to  be  covered  with  a  growth  of 
coarse  hemp,  and  he  had  an  equally  filthy  and  neglected 
beard;  his  eyes  were  the  insolent  eyes  of  a  mendicant, 
drunkard  and  thief.  He  was  repulsive  and  dirty,  grovel 
ing  in  filth  and  dust  like  a  reptile,  and  his  soul  was  as 
dark  and  mysterious  as  the  soul  of  a  savage  beast.  It 
was  difficult  to  understand  how  he  managed  to  live  and 
yet  he  lived  and  even  had  women,  as  phantastic  and  un 
real  and  as  unlike  a  human  being  as  himself. 

Father  Vassily  was  forced  to  bend  down  low  in 
order  to  hear  the  cripple's  confession.  The  impudently 
serene  stench  of  his  body,  the  parasites  crawling  about 
his  head  and  neck — even  as  he  himself  crawled  over  the 
face  of  the  earth — revealed  to  the  priest  in  a  flash  the 
utter  destitution  of  his  crippled  soul — horrible,  shame 
ful,  unfathomable  to  conscience.  And  with  a  terrible 
clearness  he  realized  how  dreadfully,  how  irrevocably 
this  man  had  been  deprived  of  all  the  human  character 
istics,  of  all  the  things  to  which  he  was  as  fully  entitled 
as  the  kings  in  their  palaces,  as  the  saints  in  their  clois 
tered  cells,  and  he  shuddered. 


216  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

"Go.     God  absolveth  thee  of  thy  sins,"  he  said. 

"Wait.  I  have  more  to  confess,"  hoarsely  croaked 
the  beggar,  raising  up  his  purpling  face.  And  he  related 
how  ten  years  back  he  had  in  a  forest  violated  a  little 
girl,  giving  her  three  copper  coins  when  she  cried, 
and  how  later  begrudging  her  this  money,  he  strangled 
her  to  death  and  buried  her  in  the  woods.  And  there 
no  one  ever  found  her.  A  dozen  times,  to  a  dozen  dif 
ferent  priests  he  had  related  the  same  story,  and  because 
of  this  repetition  it  appeared  to  him  simple  and  ordinary 
and  unrelated  to  himself,  as  though  it  were  a  mere  fairy 
tale  which  he  had  learned  by  heart.  Sometimes  he  varied 
this  story :  instead  of  summer  time  he  pictured  the  event 
as  having  occurred  late  in  the  fall ;  now  the  little  girl 
was  a  blonde,  now  darkhaired ;  but  the  three  copper  coins 
never  varied.  Some  priests  refused  to  believe  him  and 
laughed  at  him,  pointing  out  that  for  ten  years  past  not 
cne  little  girl  had  been  killed  or  missed  in  the  entire  re 
gion  ;  he  was  caught  in  numberless  and  crude  contradic 
tions,  and  it  was  demonstrated  to  him  that  the  whole 
story  was  an  obvious  fabrication,  born  of  his  diseased 
brain  while  he  drunkenly  roamed  through  the  woods. 
And  this  aroused  him  to  frenzy :  he  shouted,  he  swore 
by  the  name  of  God,  calling  as  frequently  upon  the  devil 
?s  upon  God  to  bear  him  witness,  and  began  to  recite 
such  repulsive  and  obscene  details  that  the  oldest  priests 
were  made  to  blush  with  indignation.  Now  he  was 
waiting  to  see  if  this  priest  of  the  Snamenskoye  village 
would  believe  him  or  not,  and  he  was  content  to  note 
that  the  priest  believed  him :  for  the  priest  had  shrunk 
back,  with  bloodless  cheeks  and  raised  his  hand  as 
though  to  strike  him : 

"Is  this  true?"  hoarsely  asked  Father  Vassily. 

The  beggar  began  to  cross  himself  energetically. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  217 

"I  swear  by  God  it  is  true.  Let  me  sink  into  the 
ground  if  it  ain't../' 

"But  that  means  HELL!"  cried  the  priest.  "Dost 
thou  grasp  it:  HELL?" 

"God  is  merciful,"  mumbled  the  beggar,  with  a  sul 
len  and  injured  tone.  But  from  his  wicked  and  frightened 
eyes  it  was  plainly  seen  that  he  expected  to  go  to  hell 
and  had  become  accustomed  to  that  thought  even  as  to 
his  queer  tale  of  the  strangled  little  girl. 

"Hell  on  earth,  hell  beyond.  Where  is  thy  paradise? 
Wert  thou  a  worm,  I  would  crush  thee  with  my  foot, 
but  thou  art  a  man.  A  man?  Or  art  thou  truly  a  worm? 
What  art  thou,  speak?"  cried  the  priest  and  his  hair 
shook  as  though  fanned  by  a  breeze.  "And  where  is  thy 
God?  Why  has  He  left  thee?" 

"I  made  him  believe  it,"  gleefully  thought  the  beg 
gar,  feeling  the  words  of  the  priest  strike  his  head  like 
a  hail  of  molten  metal. 

Father  Vassily  sat  down  on  his  haunches  and  draw 
ing  from  the  degradingly  unusual  pose  a  strange  and  an 
agonizing  store  of  pride,  he  passionately  whispered: 

"Listen.  Don't  be  afraid.  There  will  be  no  hell. 
I  am  telling  thee  truly.  I  too  have  killed  a  human  being. 
A  little  girl.  Her  name  is  Nastya.  And  there  will  be 
no  hell.  Thou  wilt  be  in  paradise.  Understand?  With 
the  saints,  with  the  righteous !  Higher  than  all...  Higher 
than  all,  I  tell  thee." 

That  evening  Father  Vassily  returned  home  very 
late,  after  his  family  had  finished  supper.  He  was  very 
tired  and  haggard,  wet  to  his  knees  and  covered  with 
dirt,  as  though  he  had  tramped  for  a  long  time  over  path 
less  and  rainsodden  fields.  In  the  household  prepara 
tions  were  being  made  for  the  Easter  festival.  Though 
very  busy,  the  Popadya  from  time  to  time  ran  in  for  a 


218  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

moment  out  of  the  kitchen,  anxiously  scanning  her  hus 
band's  features.  And  she  tried  to  appear  gay  and  to 
conceal  her  anxiety. 

But  at  night,  when  according  to  her  custom  she 
came  into  his  bedroom  on  tiptoe  and  having  made  a 
threefold  sign  of  the  cross  over  his  head,  was  about  to 
depart,  she  was  stopped  by  a  gentle  and  timid  voice — 
so  unlike  the  voice  of  the  austere  Father  Vassily : 

"Nastya,  I  cannot  go  to  church." 

There  was  terror  in  that  voice,  and  also  something 
pleading  and  childlike.  As  though  unhappiness  was  so 
immense  that  it  was  no  longer  any  use  to  put  on  the 
mask  of  pride  and  of  slippery,  lying  words  behind  which 
people  are  wont  to  conceal  their  feelings.  The  Popadya 
fell  to  her  knees  by  the  bedside  of  her  husband  and 
peered  into  his  face:  in  the  faint  bluish  light  of  the  oil 
lamp  it  seemed  as  pale  as  the  face  of  a  corpse  and  as 
immobile,  and  only  his  black  eyes  were  open  and  squint 
ed  in  her  direction.  He  lay  still  and  flat  on  his  back 
like  a  man  stricken  with  a  painful  disease,  or  like  a  child 
frightened  by  an  evil  dream  and  afraid  to  move. 

"Pray,  Vassya!"  whispered  the  Popadya,  stroking 
his  clammy  hands  which  were  crossed  upon  his  breast 
like  the  hands  of  a  corpse. 

"I  cannot.    I  am  afraid.    Light  the  lamp,  Nastya." 

While  she  was  lighting  the  lamp,  Father  Vassily  be 
gan  to  dress,  slowly  and  awkwardly,  like  an  invalid  who 
had  been  long  chained  to  his  bed.  He  could  not  unaided 
fasten  the  hooks  of  his  cassock,  and  he  asked  his  wife: 

"Hook  the  cassock." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  inquired  the  Popadya  in 
surprise. 

"Nowhere.    Just  so." 

And  he  began  to  pace  the  floor  slowly  and  diffidently 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  219 

with  faint  and  shaking  limbs.  His  head  was  trembling 
with  a  measured  and  hardly  perceptible  palpitation,  and 
his  lower  jaw  had  dropped  impotently.  With  an  effort 
he  attempted  to  draw  it  up  into  its  proper  place,  licking 
his  dry  and  flabby  lips,  but  in  the  next  moment  it  drop 
ped  back  again;  exposing  the  dark  gap  of  his  mouth. 
Something  vast,  something  inexpressibly  horrible  seem 
ed  to  be  impending — like  boundless  waste  and  bound 
less  silence.  And  there  was  neither  earth  nor  people 
nor  any  world  beyond  the  walls  of  the  house,  there  was 
only  the  yawning  bottomless  abyss  and  eternal  silence. 

"Vassya,  is  it  really  true?"  asked  the  Popadya,  her 
heart  sinking  with  the  fear  within  her. 

Father  Vassily  loked  at  her  with  dim,  lack-lustre 
eyes,  and  with  a  momentary  access  of  energy  waved  his 
hand: 

"Don't.     Don't.     Be  silent." 

And  once  more  he  fell  to  pacing  the  floor,  and  once 
more  dropped  the  strengthless  jaw.  And  thus  he  paced 
the  room,  with  the  slow  deliberateness  of  Time  itself, 
while  the  pale-cheeked  woman  sat  terror-stricken  on  the 
bed,  only  with  the  slow  deliberateness  of  Time  itself  her 
eyes  moved  and  followed  him  in  his  walk.  And  some 
thing  vast  was  impending.  There  it  came  and  stood 
still  and  gripped  them  with  a  vacant  and  all-embracing 
stare — vast  as  the  boundless  waste,  terrible  as  the  eternal 
silence. 

Father  Vassily  stopped  in  front  of  his  wife,  regard 
ing  her  with  unseeing  eyes  and  said : 

"It  is  dark.     Light  another  light." 

"He  is  dying,"  thought  the  Popadya  and  with  shak 
ing  hands,  scattering  matches  on  the  floor,  she  lighted 
a  candle.  And  once  more  he  begged: 

"Light  still  another." 


220  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

And  she  kept  lighting  and  lighting  them.  Many 
candles  and  lamps  were  now  ablaze.  Like  a  tiny  faintly 
bluish  star  the  little  oil  lamp  before  the  holy  image  lost 
itself  in  the  vivid  and  daring  glare  of  the  many  lights, 
and  it  seemed  as  though  the  great  and  glorious  festival 
had  already  set  in.  Meanwhile,  with  the  deliberateness 
of  Time  itself  he  softly  paced  through  the  brilliant 
waste.  Now,  when  the  waste  was  ablaze  with  lights,  the 
Popadya  saw,  and  for  one  brief,  terrible  instant  realized 
how  lone  he  was,  for  he  neither  belonged  to  her  nor  to 
anyone  else;  she  realized  that  she  could  never  alter  the 
fact.  If  all  the  good  and  strong  people  had  gathered 
from  the  ends  of  the  world,  putting  their  arms  about 
Hm,  with  words  of  caress  and  comfort,  still  he  would 
stand  in  solitude. 

And  once  more,  with  sinking  heart,  she  thought: 
"He  is  dying/' 

Thus  passed  the  night.  And  as  it  neared  its  end, 
the  stride  of  Father  Vassily  grew  firm,  he  straightened 
himself,  looked  at  the  Popadya  several  times  and  said: 

"Why  so  many  lights?    Put  them  out." 

The  Popadya  put  out  the  candles  and  the  lamps  and 
diffidently  commenced: 

"Vassya!" 

"We'll  talk  to-morrow.  Go  to  your  room.  Time 
for  you  to  go  to  sleep." 

But  the  Popadya  did  not  go,  and  her  eyes  seemed 
to  be  pleading  for  something.  And  once  again  strong 
and  stalwart  he  walked  over  to  her  and  patted  her  head 
as  though  she  were  a  child. 

"So,  Popadya!"  he  said  with  a  smile.  His  face  was 
pallid  wtih  the  diaphanous  pallor  of  death,  and  black 
circles  had  gathered  about  his  eyes:  as  though  night 
itself  had  lodged  there  and  refused  to  depart. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  221 

In  the  morning  Father  Vassily  announced  to  his 
wife  that  he  would  resign  from  the  priesthood,  that  he 
meant  to  get  together  some  money  in  the  fall  and  then 
to  go  away  with  her,  somewhere  afar  off,  he  knew  not 
yet  where.  But  the  idiot  they  would  leave  behind,  they 
would  give  him  to  someone  to  bring  up.  And  the  Popadya 
wept  and  laughed  and  for  the  first  time  after  the  birth 
of  the  idiot  she  kissed  her  husband  full  upon  his  lips, 
blushing  in  confusion. 

And  at  that  time  Vassily  Feeveysky  was  forty  years 
old,  and  his  wife  was  thirty  four. 

VIII. 

For  the  three  months  that  followed  their  souls  were 
resting ;  gladness  and  hope,  long  strangers  to  their  hearts, 
returned  to  their  home  once  again.  Strong  through  suf 
fering  endured  was  the  Popadya's  faith  in  the  new  life 
to  come, — in  an  altogether  novel  and  different  life  else 
where,  unlike  the  life  that  anybody  else  had  lived  or 
could  live.  She  sensed  but  vaguely  what  was  going  on 
in  her  husband's  heart,  though  she  saw  that  he  bore 
himself  with  a  peculiar  cheeriness,  serene  even  like  the 
flame  of  the  candle.  She  saw  the  strange  glow  in  his 
eyes  such  as  he  had  lacked  before,  and  she  had  an  abid 
ing  faith  in  his  power.  Father  Vassily  attempted  to 
talk  to  her  at  times  with  regard  to  his  plans  for  the  fu 
ture,  whither  they  would  go  and  how  they  would  live, 
but  she  refused  to  listen:  words,  exact  and  positive, 
seemed  to  frighten  away  her  vague  and  formless  vision 
and  to  drag  the  future  with  a  strangely  horrible  per- 
verseness  into  the  power  of  a  cruel  past.  Only  one  thing 
she  craved:  that  it  might  be  far  away,  far  beyond  the 
bounds  of  that  familiar  world  which  was  still  so  terrible 


222  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

to  her.  As  heretofore,  periodically  she  succumbed  to 
attacks  of  drunkenness,  but  these  passed  quickly  and  she 
no  longer  feared  them :  she  believed  that  she  would  soon 
cease  to  drink  altogether.  "It  will  be  different  there, 
I  shall  have  no  need  of  liquor,"  she  thought  all  trans 
figured  with  the  radiance  of  an  indefinite  and  glorious 
vision. 

With  the  coming  of  summer  she  once  more  began 
to  stroll  for  days  at  a  time  through  the  fields  and  the 
woods;  coming  back  at  dusk  she  waited  at  the  gate  for 
Father  Vassily's  return  from  haying.  Softly  and  slowly 
gathered  the  shadows  of  the  brief  summer  night;  and  it 
seemed  as  though  night  would  never  come  to  blot  out 
the  light  of  day;  only  when  she  glanced  upon  the  dim 
outlines  of  her  hands  which  she  held  folded  upon  her 
lap  she  felt  that  there  was  something  between  those 
hands  and  herself  and  that  it  was  night  with  the  dia 
phanous  and  mysterious  dusk.  And  before  vague  fears 
had  time  to  fill  her  heart,  Father  Vassily  was  back — stal 
wart,  vigorous,  cheery,  bringing  with  him  the  acrid  and 
pleasant  fragrance  of  grassy  fields.  His  face  was  dark 
with  the  dusk  of  night,  but  his  eyes  were  shining  bright 
ly,  and  in  his  suppressed  voice  seemed  to  lurk  the  vast 
expanse  of  the  fields  and  the  fragrance  of  grass  and  the 
joy  of  persistent  toil. 

"It  is  beautiful  out  in  the  fields/'  he  said  with  laugh 
ter  that  sounded  subdued,  enigmatic  and  somber,  as 
though  he  derided  some  one,  perhaps  himself. 

"Of  course,  Vassya,  of  course.  Of  course,  it's  beau 
tiful,"  retorted  the  Popadya  with  conviction  and  they 
went  in  to  supper.  After  the  vastness  of  the  fields  Father 
Yassily  felt  crowded  in  the  tiny  living  room;  with  em 
barrassment  he  became  conscious  of  the  length  of  his 
arms  and  of  his  legs  and  moved  them  about  so  clumsily 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  223 

and  ridiculously  that  the  Popadya  teased  him: 

"You  ought  to  be  made  to  write  a  sermon  right  now, 
v/hy  you  could  hardly  hold  a  pen  in  your  hands,"  she 
said. 

And  they  laughed. 

But  left  alone,  Father  Vassily's  face  assumed  a  se 
rious  and  solemn  expression.  Alone  with  his  thoughts 
he  dared  not  laugh  or  jest.  And  his  eyes  gazed  forward 
sternly  and  with  a  haughty  expectancy — for  he  felt  that 
even  in  these  days  of  hope  and  peace  the  same  inexorably 
cruel  and  impenetrable  fate  was  hovering  over  his  head. 

On  the  twenty  seventh  day  of  July — it  was  in  the 
evening — Father  Vassily  and  a  laborer  were  carting 
sheaves  from  the  field. 

From  the  nearby  forest  a  lengthy  shadow  had  fallen 
obliquely  across  the  field;  other  lengthy  and  oblique 
shadows  were  falling  all  over  the  field  from  every  side. 
Suddenly  from  the  direction  of  the  village  there  came 
the  faint,  barely  audible  sound  of  a  tolling  bell,  uncanny 
in  its  untimeliness.  Father  Vassily  turned  around  sharp 
ly:  there  where  through  the  wallows  he  had  been  wont 
to  see  the  dim  outlines  of  his  shingled  roof,  an  immobile 
column  of  smoke — black  and  resinous — had  reared  itself 
up  in  the  air,  and  beneath  it  writhed,  at  though  crushed 
down  by  a  gigantic  weight,  darkly  lurid  flames.  By  the 
time  they  had  cleared  the  cart  of  sheaves  and  had  reached 
the  village  at  a  gallop,  darkness  had  set  in  and  the  fire 
had  died  down:  only  the  black,  charred  corner  posts 
were  glowing  their  last  like  dying  candles,  and  faintly 
gleamed  the  tiles  of  the  stripped  fireplace,  while  a  pall 
ci  whitish  smoke  that  resembled  a  cloud  of  steam  was 
hanging  low  over  the  ruins,  wrapping  itself  about  the 
legs  of  the  peasants  who  were  stamping  out  the  fire,  and 
against  the  background  of  the  fading  glow  of  sunset  it 


224  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

seemed  suspended  in  the  air  in  the  shape  of  fiat,  dark 
shadows. 

The  whole  street  was  thronged  with  people;  the 
villagers  trampled  through  the  liquid  mud  formed  by 
water  that  had  been  spilled  in  righting  the  blaze,  they 
were  conversing  loudly  and  in  agitation,  peering  intently 
into  one  another's  faces,  as  though  failing  to  recognize 
immediately  their  neighbors'  familiar  faces  and  voices. 
The  village  herd  had  been  meanwhile  driven  in  from  the 
fields,  and  the  animals  were  straying  about  forlorn  and 
excited.  The  cows  were  lowing,  the  sheep  stared  ahead 
•with  immobile,  glassy,  bulging  eyes,  and  distractedly 
rubbed  against  the  legs  of  people,  or  startled  into  an  un 
reasoning  panic  madly  rushed  from  place  to  place  patter 
ing  with  their  hoofs  over  the  ground.  The  village  women 
tried  to  chase  them  home,  and  all  over  the  village  was 
heard  their  monotonous  summons  "kit-kit-kit."  And 
these  dark  figures,  with  their  dark  bronze-like  faces,  this 
queer  and  monotonous  calling  of  sheep,  the  sight  of  these 
human  beings  and  helpless  animals  fused  into  one  mass 
by  a  common,  primal  sense  of  fear  created  the  impres 
sion  of  something  chaotic  and  primordial. 

It  had  been  a  windless  day,  and  the  priest's  house 
was  the  only  one  consumed  by  the  blaze.  It  was  said  that 
the  fire  had  started  in  a  room  where  the  drunken  Popadya 
bad  lain  down  to  rest,  and  that  it  had  been  caused  by  a 
burning  cigarette  or  a  carelessly  thrown  match.  All  the 
villagers  were  in  the  fields  at  the  time,  and  the  rescuers 
succeeded  in  saving  the  idiot  who  was  badly  frightened 
but  unhurt,  while  the  Popadya  herself  was  discovered  in 
a  horribly  burnt  condition  and  was  dragged  out  un 
conscious,  though  still  alive.  When  Father  Vassily  who 
had  come  galloping  with  his  cart  received  the  report  of 
the  disaster,  the  villagers  were  prepared  to  witness  an 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  225 

outburst  of  grief  and  tears,  but  they  were  astounded: 
he  had  stretched  out  his  neck  in  the  attitude  of  listening 
with  concentrated  attention,  his  lips  were  tightly  com 
pressed,  and  to  judge  from  his  appearance  it  seemed  as 
though  he  had  been  fully  apprized  of  the  happenings 
and  was  now  merely  trying  to  check  up  the  report;  as 
though  in  that  brief  mad  hour,  while  with  his  locks 
fluttering  in  the  breeze,  with  his  gaze  riveted  to  the 
column  of  smoke  and  fire,  he  stood  on  his  cart  and  urged 
on  his  horse  to  a  frenzied  gallop,  he  had  divined  every 
thing:  that  it  had  been  ordained  that  a  fire  should  occur 
and  that  his  wife  and  all  he  owned  should  perish,  while 
the  idiot  and  the  little  girl  Nastya  should  be  saved  and 
remain  alive. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  still  with  downcast  eyes, 
then  he  threw  back  his  head  and  resolutely  made  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  straight  to  the  deacon's  house 
where  the  dying  Popadya  had  found  shelter. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  loudly  asked  of  the  silent  people 
within.  And  silently  they  showed  him.  He  came  close 
to  her  bedside,  bent  low  over  the  shapeless  feebly  groan 
ing  mass  and  seeing  one  great  white  blister  which  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  face  once  cherished  and  beloved, 
he  shrank  back  in  horror  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

The  Popadya  was  in  a  flutter;  doubtless  she  had 
regained  consciousness  and  was  trying  to  say  something, 
but  instead  of  words  she  emitted  a  hoarse  and  inarticu 
late  bark.  Father  Vassily  withdrew  his  hands  from  his 
face;  not  the  faintest  trace  of  a  tear  was  to  be  seen 
thereon ;  it  was  inspired  and  austere  like  the  countenance 
of  a  prophet.  And  when  he  spoke,  with  the  loud  arti 
culation  of  one  addressing  a  deaf  person,  his  voice  rang 
with  an  unshakeable  and  terrible  faith.  There  was  in  it 


226  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

nothing  human,  vacillating  or  based  on  self-strength; 
thus  could  speak  only  he  who  had  felt  the  unfathomable 
and  awful  nearness  of  God. 

"In  the  name  of  God — hearest  thou  me?"  he  ex 
claimed.  "I  am  here,  Nastya,  I  am  near  thee.  And  the 
children  are  here.  Here  is  Vassily.  Here  is  Nastya." 

From  the  immobile  and  terrible  face  of  the  Popadya 
it  could  not  be  gathered  whether  she  had  heard  or  not. 
And  raising  his  voice  to  a  higher  pitch  Father  Vassily 
once  more  addressed  himself  to  the  shapeless  mass  of 
charred  flesh: 

"Forgive  me,  Nastya.  For  I  have  destroyed  thee, 
and  thou  wast  not  to  blame.  Forgive  me — my  one — and 
— only  love.  And  bless  the  children  in  thy  heart.  Here 
they  are:  here  is  Nastya,  here  is  Vassily.  Bless  them 
and  depart  in  peace.  Have  no  fear  of  death.  God  hath 
pardoned  thee.  God  loveth  thee.  He  will  give  thee 
rest.  Depart  in  peace.  There  wilt  thou  see  Vassya. 
Depart  thou  in  peace." 

Everyone  had  now  withdrawn  with  tearful  eyes, 
and  the  idiot  who  had  fallen  asleep,  was  taken  away. 
Father  Vassily  remained  alone  with  the  dying  woman, 
to  spend  with  her  that  last  fleeting  summer  night  the 
coming  of  which  she  had  so  dreaded.  He  knelt  down, 
pillowed  his  head  near  the  dying  woman,  and  with  the 
faint  and  dreadful  odor  of  burnt  human  flesh  in  his 
nostrils,  he  shed  profuse  soft  tears  of  infinite  compas 
sion.  He  wept  for  her  in  her  youth  and  beauty,  trust 
ingly  longing  for  joy  and  caresses ;  he  wept  for  her  in 
the  loss  of  her  son ;  frenzied  and  pitiful,  a  plaything  of 
fears,  haunted  by  visions ;  he  wept  for  her  in  those  latter 
clays,  awaiting  his  coming  in  the  dusk  of  the  summer 
eve,  humble  and  radiant.  It  was  her  body — that  tender 
body  so  thirsting  for  caresses  that  the  flames  had  de- 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  22." 

voured,  and  now  it  reeked  with  the  odor  of  burning. 
Had  she  been  crying?  struggling?  calling  for  her  hus 
band? 

With  tear  dimmed  eyes  Father  Vassily  looked  about 
wildly  and  rose  to  his  feet.  All  was  still  with  a  stillness 
such  as  reigns  only  in  the  presence  of  death.  He  looked 
at  his  wife.  She  was  motionless  with  that  peculiar  im 
mobility  of  a  corpse,  when  every  fold  of  garment  and 
bedding  seems  to  be  carved  of  lifeless  stone,  when  the 
plowing  tints  of  life  have  faded  from  raiment,  yielding 
to  shades  that  seem  drab  and  unnatural.  The  Popadya 
was  dead. 

Through  the  opened  window  poured  the  warm 
breath  of  the  summer  night  and  from  somewhere  in  the 
distance,  accentuating  the  stillness  in  the  room,  came 
the  harmonious  chirping  of  crickets.  About  the  lamp 
noiselessly  circled  the  moths  of  the  night  which  had 
come  flying  through  the  window ;  striking  the  light  some 
fell,  others  with  sickly  spiral  movements  strove  anew 
towards  the  light,  and  either  lost  themselves  in  the  dark 
ness  or  gleamed  white  about  the  flame  like  little  flakes 
of  whirling  snow.  The  Popadya  was  dead. 

"No !  No !"  shouted  the  priest  in  a  loud  and  fright 
ened  voice.  "No!  No!  I  believe!  Thou  art  right! 
I  believe." 

He  fell  to  his  knees,  and  pressed  his  face  to  the 
drenched  floor,  amid  fragments  of  soiled  cotton  and  drip 
ping  bandages,  as  though  thirsting  to  be  changed  into 
dust  and  to  mingle  with  dust;  and  with  the  rapture  of 
boundless  humility  he  eliminated  from  his  outcry  the 
very  pronoun  "I"  and  added  brokenly:  "...believe!" 

Once  more  he  prayed,  without  words,  without 
thoughts,  but  straining  taut  every  fibre  of  his  mortal  body 


228  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

that  in  fire  and  death  had  realized  the  inexplicable  near 
ness  of  God.  He  had  ceased  to  sense  his  own  life  as 
such, — as  though  the  intimate  bond  between  body  and 
spirit  has  been  cut,  and  freed  from  all  that  is  earthy,  freed 
from  itself,  the  spirit  had  soared  to  unfathomed  and  mys 
terious  heights.  The  terrors  of  doubt  and  of  tempting 
thoughts,  the  passionate  wrath  and  the  bold  outcries  of 
resentful  human  pride — all  had  crumbled  into  dust  with 
the  abasement  of  the  body ;  only  the  spirit  alone,  having 
torn  the  hampering  fetters  of  its  "I"  was  living  the  mys 
terious  life  of  contemplation. 


When  Father  Vassily  had  risen  to  his  feet  it  was 
already  light,  and  a  ray  of  sunshine,  long  and  ruddy, 
clung  like  a  bright  colored  blotch  to  the  petrified  raiment 
of  the  deceased.  And  this  surprised  him,  for  the  last 
thing  that  he  remembered  was  the  darkened  window 
and  the  moths  that  circled  about  the  light.  A  number 
of  these  frail  creatures  were  scattered  in  charred  clusters 
about  the  base  of  the  lamp,  which  was  still  burning  with 
an  invisible  yellowish  flame;  one  grey  and  shaggy  moth, 
with  a  big  misshapen  head,  was  still  alive,  but  had  no 
strength  to  fly  away  and  was  helplessly  crawling  about 
the  table.  The  moth  was  doubtless  in  great  pain,  and 
was  groping  for  the  shelter  of  night  and  of  darkness,  but 
the  merciless  light  of  day  streamed  upon  it  from  every 
where  burning  its  tiny  ugly  body  that  was  created  for 
darkness.  Despairingly  it  attempted  to  shake  into  ac 
tivity  its  pair  of  short  and  singed  wings,  but  it  failed 
to  rise  up  in  the  air,  and  once  more,  with  oblique  and 
angular  movements,  it  fell  over  on  its  side  and  continued 
to  crawl  and  grope. 

Father  Vassily    put  out    the  lamp    and    threw    the 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  229 

palpitating  moth  out  of  the  window;   then   vigorously 
fresh,  as  though  after  a  long  and  refreshing  sleep,  filled 
with  the  sense  of  strength  of  restoration  and  of  a  super 
natural  peace,  he  made  his  way  into  the  deacon's  garden. 
There  for  a  long  time  he  paced  up  and  down  the  straight 
foot   path,   with    his  hands   behind   his  back,    his   head 
brushing  against  the  lower  branches  of  apple  and  cherry 
trees;  and  he  walked  and  he  thought.     Finding  a  path 
between  the  branches  the  sun  had  commenced  to  warm 
his  head,  and  as  he  turned  back  it  beat  down  upon  him 
like  a  current  of  fire  and  blinded  his  eyes ;  here  and  there 
a  worm  eaten  apple  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  dull  thud, 
and  under  a  cherry  tree,  in  the  loose,  dry  earth  a  hen 
was  fussing  around,  cackling  and  tending  her  brood  of 
a  dozen  downy  yellow  chicks;  but  he  was  oblivious  to 
the  light  of  the  sun  and  to  the  falling  apples  and  kept 
on  thinking.     And  wondrous  were  his  thoughts — clear 
?nd  pure  they  were  as  the  air  of  the  early  morn,  and 
strangely  new;  such  thoughts  had  never  before  flashed 
through  his  head  where  sad  and  painful  thoughts  were 
•uont  to  dwell.    He  was  thinking  that  where  he  had  seen 
chaos  and  the  absurdity  of  malice,  there  a  mighty  hand 
had  traced  out  a  true  and  straight  path.     Through  the 
furnace  of  calamity,  violently  snatching  him  from  home 
and  family  and  from  the  vain  cares  of  life,  a  mighty 
hand  was  leading  him  to  a  mighty  martyrdom,  a  great 
sacrifice.    God  had  transformed  his  life  into  a  desert,  but 
only  so  that  he  might  cease  to  stray  over  old  and  beaten 
paths,  over  winding  and  deceitful  roads  where  people 
err,  but  might  seek  a  new  and  daring  way  in  the  track 
less  waste.     The  column  of  smoke  which  he  had  seen 
the  night  before,  was  it  not  that  pillar  of  fire  which  had 
marked  for  the  Hebrews  a  path  through  the  pathless 
desert?    He  thought:  "Lord,  will  my  feeble  strength  be 


230  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

equal  to  the  task?"  but  the  answer  came  in  the  flames 
that  illumined  his  soul  like  a  new  sun. 

He  had  been  chosen. 

For  an  unknown  martyrdom,  for  an  unknown  sacri 
fice  he  had  been  chosen  by  God,  he,  Vassily  Feeveysky, 
who  so  blasphemously  and  madly  had  cried  out  in  bitter 
complaint  against  his  fate.  He  had  been  chosen.  Let 
the  earth  open  at  his  feet,  let  hell  itself  look  at  him  with 
its  red  and  cunning  eyes,  he  will  disbelieve  hell  itself. 
He  had  been  chosen.  And  was  he  not  standing  on  solid 
ground? 

Father  Vassily  stopped  and  stamped  his  foot.  The 
frightened  hen  emitted  an  anxious  cackle  and  calling  her 
brood  together  stood  on  guard.  One  of  the  little  chicks 
had  strayed  afar  and  hurried  to  answer  his  maternal  call, 
but  halfway  to  his  goal  two  hands,  hot,  strong  and  bony 
seized  him  and  raised  him  up  in  the  air.  Smiling, 
Father  Vassily  breathed  upon  the  tiny  yellowish  chick 
with  his  hot  and  moist  breath,  then  gently  folding  his 
hands  into  the  semblance  of  a  nest  he  tenderly  pressed 
him  to  his  breast  and  continued  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
long  and  straight  walk. 

"What  martyrdom?  I  don't  know.  But  dare  I 
want  to  know?  Didn't  I  once  know  my  fate?  And  I 
called  it  cruel,  and  my  knowledge  was  a  lie.  Did  I  not 
think  of  bringing  a  son  into  the  world?  And  a  monster, 
without  form  or  mind,  entered  into  my  home.  And  again 
I  thought  to  multiply  my  goods  and  to  leave  my  house, 
but  it  had  left  me  first,  consumed  by  a  fire  from  heaven. 
That  was  what  my  knowledge  amounted  to.  And  she — 
an  infinitely  unfortunate  woman,  wronged  in  her  very 
womb,  who  had  exhausted  all  tears,  who  had  lived 
through  all  horrors.  She  was  waiting  for  a  new  life  on 
earth,  and  this  life  would  have  been  sorrowful,  but  now 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  231 

she  is  reclining  in  death,  and  her  soul  is  laughing  and 
is  branding  the  old  knowledge  a  lie.  HE  knows.  He 
has  given  me  much.  He  has  granted  to  me  to  see  life 
and  to  experience  sufferings  and  with  the  sharpness  of 
my  sorrow  to  penetrate  into  the  sufferings  of  other 
people.  He  has  granted  to  me  to  apprehend  their  great 
expectation  and  has  given  me  love  towards  them.  And 
ere  they  not  expecting?  And  do  I  not  love?  Dear 
brethren !  God  has  shown  mercy  to  us,  the  hour  of  the 
mercy  of  God  has  come." 

He  kissed  the  downy  head  of  the  chick  and  con 
tinued  : 

"My  path?  Does  the  arrow  think  of  its  path  when 
sent  forth  by  a  mighty  hand?  It  flies  and  plunges  through 
to  its  goal  subservient  to  the  will  of  him  who  sent  it 
on  its  way.  It  is  given  to  me  to  see,  it  is  given  to  me 
to  love,  but  what  will  come  of  this  vision,  of  this  love, 
that  will  be  His  holy  will — my  martyrdom,  my  sacrifice." 

Coddled  in  the  hollow  of  his  warm  hand  the  little 
chicl~  closed  his  eyes  and  fell  asleep.  And  the  priest 
smiled. 

"There — I  need  only  close  my  hand  and  he  will  die. 
Yet  he  is  lying  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,  upon  my 
bosom,  and  sleeping  trustingly.  And  am  I  not  in  His 
hand?  And  dare  I  disbelieve  the  mercy  of  God  when 
this  chick  believes  in  my  human  kindness,  in  my  human 
heart?" 

He  smiled  softly,  opening  his  black,  half-rotted 
teeth  and  over  his  austere,  forbidding  face  the  smile 
scattered  into  a  thousand  radiant  wrinkles  as  though  a 
ray  of  sunlight  suddenly  set  a-sparkle  a  pool  of  deep  and 
dark  waters.  And  the  great,  grave  thoughts  fled  away 
scared  off  by  human  gladness,  and  for  a  long  time  only 


232  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

gladness,  only  laughter  remained,  and  the  light  of  the 
sun  and  the  gently  slumbering  downy  little  chick. 

But  now  the  wrinkles  smoothed,  the  face  became 
once  more  austere  and  grave,  and  the  eyes  sparkled  with 
inspiration.  The  greatest,  the  most  significant  arose  be 
fore  him — and  its  name  was  Miracle.  Thither  his  still 
human,  all  too  human  thought  had  not  yet  dared  to  stray. 
There  was  the  boundary  line  of  thought.  There  in  the 
fathomless  solar  depths  were  the  dim  contours  of  a  new 
world — and  it  was  no  longer  the  earth.  A  world  of  love, 
a  world  of  divine  justice,  a  world  of  radiant  and  fearless 
countenances,  undisgraced  by  lines  of  suffering,  famine 
and  pain.  Like  a  gigantic,  monstrous  diamond  sparkled 
this  world  in  the  fathomless  solar  depths,  and  the  human 
eye  could  not  dwell  upon  it  without  blinding  pain  and 
awe.  And  humbly  bowing  his  head  Father  Vassily  ex 
claimed  : 

'Thy  holy  will  be  done!" 

People  made  their  appearance  in  the  garden :  the 
deacon  and  his  wife  and  many  others.  They  had  seen 
the  priest  from  afar  and  with  cordial  nods  hastened  to 
wards  him,  but  as  they  approached  him  they  paused 
and  stopped  as  though  transfixed,  as  people  pause  before 
a  conflagration,  before  a  turbulent  flood,  before  the  calm 
ly  enigmatic  gaze  of  a  madman. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  in  this  manner  ?"  inquired 
Father  Vassily  in  surprise. 

But  they  never  stirred  from  the  spot  and  continued 
to  look.  Before  them  stood  a  tall  man,  entirely  unknown 
to  them,  an  utter  stranger,  whose  very  calm  made  him 
all  the  more  distant  from  them.  Dark  he  was  and  terrible 
to  look  upon  like  a  shade  from  another  world,  but  a 
sparkling  smile  played  on  his  face  in  a  myriad  radiant 
wrinkles,  as  though  the  sun  was  sparkling  in  a  deep 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  233 

black  pool  of  stagnant  water.    And  in  his  large  gnarled 
hands  he  was  holding  a  downy  yellow  little  chick. 

"Why  are  you  looking  at  me  in  this  manner?"  he 
repeated  smiling.  "Am  I  a  miracle?" 

IX. 

It  was  obvious  to  all  that  Father  Vassily  was  hasten 
ing  to  sever  the  last  ties  that  still  bound  him  to  the  past 
and  to  the  vain  cares  of  this  life.  He  had  written  his 
sister  in  the  city  and  made  hurried  arrangements  with 
her  concerning  Nastya,  leaving  the  girl  in  her  charge, 
nor  did  he  delay  a  day  in  despatching  her  to  her  aunt, 
as  though  fearing  that  fatherly  love  might  rise  up  within 
him  and  prevent  this  arrangement  to  the  detriment  of 
his  ministry.  Nastya  departed  without  exhibiting  either 
pleasure  or  disappointment:  she  was  content  that  her 
mother  had  died  and  merely  regretted  that  the  idiot  had 
not  also  burnt  to  death.  Seated  in  the  wagon,  in  an  old- 
fashioned  dress  which  had  been  re-made  from  an  old 
gown  of  her  mother's,  with  a  child's  hat  sitting  awry  on 
her  head,  she  resembled  a  queerly  attired  and  homely  old 
maid  rather  than  a  girl  in  her  early  teens.  With  her 
wolfish  eyes  she  coldly  watched  the  fussy  deacon  and 
protested  in  a  dry  voice  that  was  much  like  the  voice  of 
her  father: 

"Don't  bother,  Father  Deacon.  I  am  comfortable. 
Good-bye,  papa." 

"Good-bye,  Nastya  dear.     Mind  your  studies,  don't 

be  lazy." 

The  wagon  started  off,  shaking  up  the  girl  with  its 
jolting,  but  in  the  next  moment  she  sat  up  erect  like  a 
stick,  swaying  no  longer  from  side  to  side,  but  merely 
bobbing  up  and  down.  The  deacon  pulled  out  a  hand- 


234  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

kerchief  in  order  to  wave  the  little  traveler  good-bye, 
but  Nastya  never  turned  around ;  and  shaking  his  head 
reprovingly  the  deacon  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  blew  his  nose 
and  put  the  handkerchief  back  into  his  pocket.  Thus 
she  departed  never  to  return  to  the  village  of  Snamen- 
skoye. 

"Why  don't  you,  Father  Vassily,  send  the  little  boy 
away  as  well?  It  will  be  hard  on  you  to  take  care  of 
him  with  only  the  cook  to  help  you.  She's  a  stupid 
wench  and  deaf  into  the  bargain,"  said  the  deacon  when 
the  wagon  was  out  of  sight  and  the  dust  which  it  had 
raised  had  settled. 

Father  Vassily  eyed  him  pensively: 

"Shirk  the  consequences  of  my  own  sin,  and  burden 
others  with  them?  No,  deacon,  my  sin  is  with  me  and 
must  remain  with  me.  We'll  manage  somehow,  the  old 
and  the  young  one,  what  do  you  think,  Father  Deacon?" 

He  smiled  a  pleasant  and  cordial  smile,  as  though  in 
stingless  raillery  at  something  known  to  himself  alone, 
and  patted  the  deacon's  portly  shoulder. 

Father  Vassily  transferred  the  rights  to  his  land  to 
the  vestry,  providing  a  small  sum  for  his  support,  which 
he  called  his  "dowry." 

"And  perhaps  I  might  not  take  even  that,"  he  said 
enigmatically,  smiling  pleasantly,  with  the  same  sting- 
less  raillery  that  was  a  riddle  to  all  but  himself. 

And  he  made  it  his  business  to  look  after  another 
matter:  he  induced  Ivan  Porfyritch  to  give  employment 
to  Mossyagin  who  had  been  turning  black  in  the  face  from 
slow  starvation.  When  Mossyagin  had  first  called  on  Ivan 
Porfyritch  asking  him  for  work,  the  churchwarden  drove 
him  away,  but  after  a  talk  with  the  priest,  he  not  only 
gave  him  employment,  but  even  sent  over  a  load  of 
shingles  for  Father  Vassily's  new  house.  And  he  said 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  235 

to  his  wife,  a  woman  who  never  opened  her  mouth  and 
was  always  in  the  family  way: 

"Mark  my  word,  this  priest  will  raise  ructions." 

"What  ructions?"  coldly  inquired  the  wife. 

"Just  plain  ructions.  Only  as  how  in  a  manner  of 
speaking  it  is  none  of  my  business...  So  I  keep  my  mouth 
shut.  Otherwise..."  and  he  looked  vaguely  through  the 
window  in  the  direction  of  the  capital  city  of  the  prov 
ince. 

And  no  one  knew  whence,  whether  as  the  result  of 
the  churchwarden's  mysterious  words  or  from  other 
sources,  vague  and  disquieting  rumors  gained  currency  in 
the  village  and  in  the  vicinity  with  regard  to  the  priest  of 
Snamenskoye.  Like  the  odor  of  smoke  from  a  distant 
forest  fire  these  rumors  moved  slowly  and  scattered 
widely,  no  one  knowing  whence  and  how  they  had  orig 
inated,  and  only  as  the  people  exchanged  glances  and 
saw  the  sun  grow  pallid  behind  a  hazy  film  they  began 
to  realize  that  something  new,  unusual  and  disquieting 
had  come  to  dwell  among  them. 


Towards  the  middle  of  October  the  new  house  was 
ready  for  occupancy,  save  that  only  one  wing  was  all 
finished  and  covered  with  a  roof;  the  other  wing  still 
lacked  roof  beams  and  rafters,  and  gaping  with  empty 
and  frameless  window  openings,  clung  to  the  finished 
portion  like  a  skeleton  strapped  to  a  living  person,  and 
id  night  looked  grimly  desolate  and  forbidding.  Father 
Vassily  had  not  troubled  to  buy  new  furniture :  within 
the  four  bare  walls  of  crude  logs  on  which  the  amber 
sap  had  not  yet  hardened,  the  sole  furniture  in  the  four 
rooms  consisted  of  two  wooden  stools,  a  table  and  two 
beds.  The  deaf  and  stupid  cook  was  a  poor  hand  at 


236  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

building  fires  and  the  rooms  were  always  full  of  smoke 
which  gave  headaches  to  the  inmates  and  hung  like  a 
low  grey  cloud  over  the  dirty  floor  with  its  imprint  of 
muddy  boots.  And  the  house  was  cold.  During  the  se 
vere  cold  spell  of  early  winter  the  widow  panes  had 
gathered  a  layer  of  downy  frost  on  the  inside  and  a  bleak 
chilling  twilight  reigned  within.  The  window  sills  had 
been  encrusted  since  the  early  frost  with  a  thick  coating 
of  ice  which  constantly  dribbling,  formed  rivulets  on  the 
floor.  Even  the  unpretentious  peasants  who  came  to  the 
priest  for  ministrations  looked  askance,  in  guilty  embar 
rassment,  upon  the  penurious  furnishings  of  the  priestly 
abode,  and  the  deacon  referred  to  it  wrathfully  as  the 
"abomination  of  desolation." 

When  Father  Vassily  first  entered  his  new  house,  he 
paced  for  a  long  time  in  joyful  agitation  through  rooms 
that  were  as  cold  and  barren  as  a  barn  and  merrily  called 
to  the  idiot: 

"We'll  live  like  lords  here,  Vassily,  hey?" 

The  idiot  licked  his  lips  with  his  long  brutish  tongue 
and  loudly  barked  with  jerky,  monotonous  bellows: 

"Huh-huh-huh!" 

He  was  pleased  and  he  laughed.  But  soon  he  began 
to  feel  the  cold  and  the  loneliness  and  the  gloom  of  the 
abandoned  abode,  and  this  made  him  angry ;  he  screamed, 
slapped  his  own  cheeks  and  tried  to  slide  down  on  the 
f.oor,  but  he  fell  from  the  chair  painfully  hurting  him 
self.  Sometimes  he  lapsed  into  a  state  of  heavy  stupor 
not  unlike  a  grotesque  pensive  day  dream.  Supporting 
his  head  with  his  thin  long  fingers  he  stared  into  space 
from  beneath  his  narrow,  beastlike  eyelids  and  never 
stirred.  And  it  seemed  at  times  that  he  was  not  an  idiot, 
but  some  strange  creature  lost  in  meditation,  thinking 
peculiar  thoughts  of  his  own  that  were  totally  unlike  the 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  237 

thoughts  of  other  people :  as  though  he  knew  something 
that  was  peculiar,  simple  and  mysterious,  something  that 
no  one  else  could  know  of.  And  to  look  at  his  flattened 
nose  with  the  widely  distended  nostrils,  at  the  slanting 
back  of  his  head  which  in  a  brutish  slope  merged  straight 
into  his  back — it  seemed  that  if  one  were  only  to  lend 
him  a  pair  of  swift  and  sturdy  legs  he  would  scurry  away 
into  the  woods  there  to  live  out  his  mysterious  forest  life 
filled  with  savage  play  and  obscure  forest  lore. 

And  side  by  side  with  him,  always  the  two  together, 
always  alone,  now  deafened  by  his  impudent  and  malig 
nant  screaming,  now  haunted  by  his  stony  enigmatic 
ctare,  Father  Vassily  lived  the  equally  mysterious  life  of 
the  spirit,  that  had  renounced  the  flesh.  He  longed  to  purge 
himself  for  the  great  martyrdom  and  the  great  sacrifice 
yet  unrevealed,  and  his  days  and  his  nights  became  one 
ceaseless  prayer,  one  wordless  effusion.  Since  the  death 
of  the  Popadya  he  had  imposed  upon  himself  an  ascetic 
regime:  he  drank  no  tea,  he  tasted  neither  meat  nor 
fish,  and  on  days  of  abstinence,  Wednesday  and  Friday, 
his  food  consisted  merely  of  bread  soaked  in  water.  And 
with  a  puzzling  cruelty  that  seemed  to  be  akin  to  vin- 
dictiveness  he  had  imposed  the  same  strict  abstinence 
upon  the  idiot,  and  the  latter  suffered  like  a  starving 
beast.  He  screamed  and  scratched  and  even  shed  floods 
of  greedy,  doglike  tears,  but  he  could  not  procure  an  ad 
ditional  bite  of  food.  The  priest  saw  but  few  people,  and 
these  only  when  absolutely  compelled  to  receive  them, 
and  he  assiduously  shortened  all  interviews,  devoting 
every  hour,  with  brief  intervals  for  rest  and  sleep,  to 
prayer  on  bended  knee.  And  when  he  grew  tired  he 
sat  down  and  read  the  Gospels  and  the  Acts  of  the 
Apostles  and  the  Lives  of  the  Saints.  It  had  been  the 
village  custom  to  hold  services  only  on  Sundays  and  holi- 


238  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

days,  but  now  he  celebrated  the  early  liturgy  every  morn 
ing.  The  aged  deacon  had  refused  to  officiate  with  him, 
and  he  was  assisted  by  the  lay-reader,  a  filthy  and  lonely 
old  man  who  had  been  once  deposed  from  the  diaconate 
for  drunkenness,  and  was  now  acting  as  verger. 

Long  before  daybreak,  shivering  with  the  cold  of 
the  early  winter  morning,  Father  Vassily  wended  his 
way  to  the  church.  He  did  not  have  far  to  go,  but  the 
walk  consumed  much  time.  Frequently  a  snow  drift 
covered  the  road  at  night  and  his  feet  sank  and  stuck 
fast  in  the  dry  grainy  snow  and  each  step  required  the 
effort  of  ten  ordinary  steps.  The  church  was  not  properly 
heated  and  it  was  bitterly  cold  inside,  with  that  peculiar 
penetrating  cold  which  in  winter  time  clings  to  public 
places  left  vacant  for  days  at  a  time.  Human  breath 
turned  into  dense  clouds  of  vapor,  the  touch  of  metal  felt 
like  a  burn.  The  lay-reader,  who  was  also  the  verger, 
built  a  small  fire  in  a  tiny  stove,  back  of  the  altar,  just 
for  the  priest's  comfort,  and  by  its  opened  gate,  Father 
Vassily,  squatting  on  his  haunches,  warmed  his  hands 
before  the  modest  blaze,  for  otherwise  he  could  not  have 
clasped  the  cross  with  his  numb  and  unbending  fingers. 
And  during  the  ten  minutes  thus  spent  he  joked  with 
the  old  lay-reader  about  the  cold  and  the  gipsy  sweat, 
and  the  lay-reader  listened  to  him  with  sullen  condescen 
sion  ;  constant  drink  and  cold  had  colored  the  lay-reader's 
nose  a  deep  purple,  and  his  bristling  chin  (after  his 
deposition  he  had  shaved  off  his  beard)  moved  rhyth 
mically  as  though  chewing  a  cud. 

Then  Father  Vassily  donned  his  tattered  vestments, 
once  embroidered  with  gold,  of  which  a  few  ragged 
thread  ends  were  the  sole  remaining  trace.  A  pinch 
of  incense  was  dropped  into  the  censer  and  they  began 
to  officiate  in  semi-darkness,  barely  able  to  distinguish 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  239 

cne  another's  outlines,  like  a  couple  of  blind  men  moving 
by  instinct  in  a  familiar  spot.  Two  stumps  of  wax 
tapers,  one  near  the  lay-reader,  the  other  on  the  altar 
near  the  image  of  the  Saviour,  merely  served  to  intensify 
the  gloom;  and  their  sharp  flames  slowly  swayed  from 
side  to  side  responding  to  the  movements  of  these  un- 
hurrying  men. 

The  service  was  long,  and  it  was  slow  and  solemn. 
Every  word  trembled  and  deliquesced  in  its  outlines,  be 
ing  caught  up  by  the  echo  of  the  deserted  church.  And 
there  was  nothing  within  but  the  echo,  the  darkness  and 
the  two  men  serving  God ;  and  little  by  little  something 
began  to  glow  and  blaze  in  the  lay-reader's  heart.  Pricking 
up  his  ears,  he  cautiously  strove  to  catch  every  word  of 
the  priest  and  moved  his  chin  in  quick  succession.  And 
his  lonely,  filthy  decrepit  old  age  seemed  to  vanish  some 
where  into  distance,  and  with  it  the  whole  of  his  luck 
less  and  weary  existence,  and  that  which  came  in  the 
place  thereof  was  strange  and  joyous  to  the  verge  of  ^ 
tears.  Frequently  to  the  lay-reader's  allocution  there ' 
came  no  response;  silence,  protracted  and  solemn,  en 
sued,  and  the  sharp  tongues 'of  wax  tapers  blazed  straight 
up  without  stirring.  Then  from  the  distance  came  a 
voice  that  was  sated  with  tears  and  with  gladness.  And 
once  more  through  the  semi-darkness  moved  sure-footed- 
ly  the  two  unhurrying  celebrants,  and  the  flames  swayed 
to  one  side  and  to  the  other  in  response  to  their  de 
liberate  measured  movements. 

The  daylight  was  commencing  to  break  when  the 
service  was  finished,  and  Father  Vassily  said: 
"Look,  Nicon,  how  warm  it  is  getting." 
A  spiral  of  steam  was  issuing  from  his  mouth.    The 
wrinkles  on  Nicon's  cheeks  had  grown  pink,  he  scanned 


240  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

the  priest's  face  with  a  severely  searching  expression  and 

diffidently  inquired: 

"And  to-morrow — again?    Or  perhaps  not?" 
"Of  course,  Nicon,  again,  of  course." 

Reverently  he  conducted  the  priest  to  the  door  and 
then  returned  to  his  watchman's  booth.  There,  yelping 
and  barking,  a  dozen  dogs  came  running  towards  him — 
grown  up  dogs  they  were  and  pups.  Surrounded  by 
them  as  though  by  a  family  of  children,  he  fed  them  and 
caressed  them,  with  his  thoughts  dwelling  constantly  on 
the  priest.  And  as  he  thought  of  the  priest  he  wondered. 
He  thought  of  the  priest — and  smiled,  without  opening 
his  lips,  and  averting  his  face  from  his  dogs  so  that  they 
might  not  see  his  smile.  And  he  thought,  and  he  thought 
— until  nightfall.  But  in  the  morning  he  waited  to  see 
if  the  priest  would  not  fool  him,  if  the  priest  would  not 
back  down  in  the  face  of  the  darkness  and  the  frost.  But 
the  priest  came  despite  the  cold  and  the  darkness,  shiver 
ing,  yet  cheerful,  and  once  more  from  the  gaping  mouth 
of  the  little  stove  into  the  very  depths  of  the  vacant 
church  stretched  a  ribbon  of  a  ruddy  glow  and  along  it 
the  black  and  melting  shadow. 

At  first  hearing  of  the  eccentricities  of  the  priest 
many  people  came  to  the  early  liturgy  just  to  see  him 
officiate  and  they  marveled.  Some  of  those  who  came  to 
watch  him  pronounced  him  a  madman;  others  were 
edified  and  wept,  but  there  were  others,  too,  and  these 
were  many,  in  whose  hearts  was  born  a  keen  and  uncon 
querable  disquietude.  For  in  the  steady,  in  the  fearless 
ly  frank  and  luminous  glance  of  the  priest  they  had 
caught  a  glimmer  of  mystery,  of  the  most  profound  and 
hidden  mystery,  full  of  ineffable  threats,  full  of  ominous 
promises.  But  soon  the  merely  curious  began  to  drop 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  241 

off,  and  for  a  long  time  the  church  remained  vacant  in 
these  early  morning  hours,  none  disturbing  the  peace  of 
the  two  praying  men.  But  after  a  lapse  of  time  in  re 
sponse  to  the  words  of  the  priest  there  had  begun  to 
come  from  the  darkness  timid,  subdued  sighs,  someone's 
knees  struck  the  flags  of  the  stone  floor  with  a  dull  thud ; 
someone's  lips  were  whispering,  someone's  hands  were 
holding  a  tiny  fresh  taper,  and  between  the  two  stumps 
it  looked  like  a  stately  young  birch  in  a  forest  clearing. 

And  rumor,  dull,  disquieting,  impersonal,  grew 
apace.  It  crept  everywhere  where  people  assembled, 
leaving  behind  some  sediment  of  fear,  hope  and  expect 
ancy.  Little  was  said,  and  what  was  said  was  vague; 
for  the  most  part  it  was  the  wagging  of  heads,  followed 
by  sighs,  but  in  the  neighboring  province,  a  hundred 
miles  away,  someone,  grey  and  taciturn,  began  to  whisper 
of  a  "new  faith"  and  was  lost  again  in  silence.  And 
rumor  kept  spreading,  like  the  wind,  like  the  clouds,  like 
the  smoky  odor  of  a  distant  forest  fire. 

Last  of  all  the  rumors  reached  the  provincial  capital, 
as  though  they  found  it  hard  and  painful  to  make  their 
way  through  stone  walls,  through  the  noisy  and  popu 
lous  city  streets.  And  like  naked,  ragged  thieves  they 
finally  showed  themselves,  claiming  that  someone  had 
burned  himself  alive,  that  a  new  fanatical  sect  had  sprung 
up  in  Snamenskoye.  And  people  in  uniform  made  their 
appearance  in  the  village,  but  they  found  nothing,  for 
neither  the  village  houses  nor  the  stolid  faces  of  the 
villagers  revealed  anything  to  them,  and  they  drove  back 
to  town  tinkling  with  their  sleigh  bells. 

But  after  this  visit  the  rumors  became  still  more  per 
sistent  and  malicious,  while  Father  Vassily  continued 
to  serve  mass  every  morning  as  heretofore. 


242  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY. 


X. 


The  long  evenings  of  winter  time  Father  Vassily 
passed  in  solitude  with  the  idiot,  imprisoned  together 
with  him  in  the  white  cage  of  pine  log  walls  and  ceiling, 
as  though  locked  in  a  shell. 

From  the  past  he  had  retained  a  love  for  bright 
lights — and  on  the  table,  warming  the  room,  blazed  a 
large  oil  lamp  with  a  big-bellied  globe.  The  window 
panes  frozen  outside  and  frosted  within  reflected  the  light 
of  the  lamp  and  sparkled,  but  were  impenetrably  opaque 
like  the  walls  and  cut  off  the  people  from  the  greying 
night  outside.  Like  a  boundless  sphere  the  night  en 
veloped  the  house,  crushing  it  from  above,  seeking  some 
crevice  through  which  to  plunge  its  greyish  claws,  but 
finding  none.  It  raged  about  the  doors,  tapped  the  walls 
with  its  lifeless  hands,  exhaling  a  murderous  cold,  wrath- 
fully  raised  a  myriad  of  dry  and  spiteful  snowflakes, 
flinging  them  frenziedly  against  the  windowpanes,  and 
frantically  ran  back  into  the  fields,  cavorting,  singing 
and  leaping  headlong  into  snowbanks,  clutching  the 
stiffened  earth  in  its  crosslike  embrace.  Then  it  rose 
and  squatted  on  its  haunches  and  silently  gazed  into  the 
illuminated  windows  gnashing  its  teeth.  And  once  more 
shrilly  shrieking  it  flung  itself  against  the  house,  bellow 
ing  into  the  chimney  with  a  greedy  howl  of  insatiable 
hatred  and  longing,  and  it  lied:  it  had  no  children,  it 
had  devoured  them  all  and  buried  them  out  in  the  field 
in  the  field — in  the  field. 

"A  snowstorm,"  said  Father  Vassily  stopping  to 
listen  for  a  moment  and  turning  his  eyes  back  to  his 
reading. 

But  it  found  them.    The  flame  of  the  big  lamp  melt- 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  243 

ed  a  circle  in  the  frosty  armor,  and  the  damp  window 
pane  glistened  and  it  glued  its  grey  wan  eye  to  the  ex 
posed  spot.  "Two  of  them — two — two — just  two." 
Rough,  bare  walls  with  the  shining  drops  of  amber  sap, 
the  radiant  emptiness  of  air  and  the  humans — two  of 
them. 

With  the  narrow  little  skull  bending  over  his  work 
the  idiot  sat  at  the  table  pasting  little  boxes  out  of 
cardboard:  he  was  spreading  on  the  paste,  holding  the 
tip  of  the  brush  in  his  long  narrow  hand,  or  else  he  was 
cutting  up  the  cardboard  and  the  click  of  the  scissors 
resounded  noisily  through  the  barren  house.  The  boxes 
came  out  all  askew  and  dirty,  with  overlapping  bands 
that  refused  to  stick,  but  the  idiot  was  unconscious  of 
these  defects  and  continued  to  work.  Now  and  then  he 
raised  his  head  and  with  a  motionless  glance  from  be 
neath  his  narrow  brutish  eyelids  he  gazed  into  the  radiant 
emptiness  of  the  room,  wherein  a  riot  of  sounds  was 
fighting,  whirling  and  circling.  Rustling,  rattling,  crack 
ling,  booming,  explosive  sounds  they  were,  mingling  with 
someone's  laughter  and  long  drawn  out,  protracted 
sighing.  They  were  hovering  over  him,  running  over 
his  face  like  invisible  cobwebs,  and  penetrating  into  his 
head — those  rustling,  crackling,  sighing  sounds.  And 
the  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  was  motionless 
and  silent. 

"Bang!"  crackled  the  drying  wood,  and  Father 
Vassily  shivered  and  tore  his  eyes  from  the  white  page 
before  him.  And  then  he  saw  the  bare  rough  walls,  and 
the  desolate  windows  and  the  grey  eye  of  the  night,  and 
the  idiot  frozen  in  a  listening  attitude  with  a  pair  of 
shears  in  his  hands.  All  this  flitted  past  him  like  a  vision, 
and  once  more  before  his  lowered  eyes  spread  the  un 
fathomable  world  of  the  marvelous,  the  world  of  love, 


244  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

the  world  of  gentle  compassion  and  of  beautiful  sacrifices. 

"Pa-pa,"  the  idiot  mumbled  the  word  which  he  had 
recently  learned,  and  looked  at  his  father  askance,  an 
grily,  worriedly.  But  the  man  heard  not  and  was  silent, 
and  his  luminous  face  seemed  inspired.  He  was  dream 
ing  the  wondrous  dreams  of  a  madness  that  was  bril 
liant  as  the  sun.  He  believed  with  the  faith  of  those 
martyrs  who  enter  upon  the  stake  as  upon  a  couch  of 
joy  and  die  with  a  doxology  on  their  lips.  And  he  loved 
with  the  mighty  and  unrestrained  love  of  the  master 
who  rules  life  and  death  and  knows  not  the  torture  of 
the  tragic  impotence  of  human  love.  "Glory — glory-^ 
glory!" 

"Pa-pa,  Pa-pa!"  once  more  mumbled  the  idiot,  and 
receiving  no  reply  took  up  his  shears  again.  But  he 
soon  dropped  them  again,  staring  with  motionless  eyes 
and  pricking  up  his  outstanding  ears  to  catch  the  sounds 
as  they  flitted  past  him.  Hissing  and  rustling,  laughter 
and  whistling.  And  laughter.  The  night  was  in  a  play 
ful  mood.  It  squatted  on  the  beams  of  the  unfinished 
tramework,  rocking  on  the  rafters  and  tumbling  into  the 
snow ;  it  quietly  stole  into  nooks  and  crannies,  and  there 
dug  graves  for  those  strangers,  those  strangers.  And 
joyously  it  whirled  up  aloft,  spreading  its  grey,  wide 
wings,  peering;  then  it  tumbled  again  like  a  rock,  or 
circling  whizzed  through  the  darkened  window  openings 
of  the  frosty  framework,  hissing  and  screaming.  It  was 
chasing  the  snowflakes — pallid  with  fear  they  silently 
sped  onward  in  headlong  flight. 

"Pa-pa,"  the  idiot  shouted  loudly.     Pa-pa!" 

The  man  heard  and  raised  his  head  with  the  long, 
black,  greying  locks  that  encircled  his  face  like  the 
night  and  the  snow.  For  a  moment  before  him  rose 
again  the  bare,  rough  walls  and  the  spiteful  and  fright- 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  245 

ened  face  of  the  idiot  and  the  screaming  of  the  rioting 
snowstorm,  filling  his  heart  with  agonized  elation.  It 
is  done — it  is  done. 

"What  is  it,  Vassily?     Paste  your  boxes." 

"Papa!" 

"Be  calm.  The  snowstorm?  Yes,  yes,  the  snow 
storm  !" 

Father  Vassily  clung  to  the  window — eye  to  eye 
with  the  greying  night.  He  peered.  And  he  whispered 
in  terrified  wonderment: 

"Why  doesn't  he  ring  the  bell?*)  What  if  some  one 
is  lost  in  the  fields?" 

The  night  is  sobbing.  In  the  field — in  the  field — 
in  the  field. 

"Wait,  Vassily.  I'll  walk  over  to  Nicon's.  I'll  re 
turn  at  once." 

"Pa-pa!" 

The  door  rattles,  letting  in  a  flood  of  new  sounds. 
They  first  timidly  edge  their  way  near  the  door — no  one 
is  there.  It  is  bright  and  empty.  One  by  one  they  steal 
towards  the  idiot,  groping  along  the  ceiling,  along  the 
floor,  along  the  walls.  They  peer  into  his  brutish  eyes, 
they  whisper,  they  laugh,  they  commence  to  play  with 
growing  glee,  with  growing  abandon.  They  chase  one 
another,  leaping  and  stumbling.  They  are  doing  some 
thing  in  the  adjoining  room,  fighting  and  screaming. 
No  one  there.  Light  and  emptiness.  No  one  there. 

"Boom!'  somewhere  overhead  falls  the  first  heavy 
note  of  the  church  bell  scattering  the  myriad  of  fright 
ened  sounds  into  flight.  "Boom!"  goes  the  bell  once 
more,  with  a  second,  muffled,  viscid,  scattered  sound,  as 


*)  The  village  church  bell  is  rung  during  a  snowstorm  to  guide 
any  team  or  wanderer  that  may  be  seeking  the  road. 


246  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

though  an  onrush  of  wind  had  caught  the  broad  maw 
of  the  bell,  and  it  choked  and  groaned.  And  the  tiny 
sounds  flee  precipitously. 

"And  here  am  I  again,"  says  Father  Vassily.  lie 
is  all  white  and  shivering.  The  stiff,  red  fingers  cannot 
turn  the  page.  He  blows  on  them,  rubs  them  together, 
and  once  more  the  pages  rustle  and  all  disappears,  the 
bare  rough  walls,  the  repulsive  mask  of  the  idiot  and  the 
measured  knell  of  the  church  bell.  Once  more  his  face 
is  ablaze  with  joyous  madness.  "Glory,  glory!" 

"Boom!" 

The  night  is  playing  with  the  bell.  Catching  its 
thickly  reverberating  notes,  weaving  about  them  a  net 
work  of  whizzing  and  whistling  sounds,  tearing  them 
to  pieces,  scattering  them  abroad,  rolling  them  ponder 
ously  over  the  fields,  burying  them  in  the  snow,  and 
listening  with  the  head  askew.  And  once  more  it  rushes 
to  meet  the  new  clangor,  tireless,  spiteful  and  cunning 
like  Satan. 

"Pa-pa!"  cried  the  idiot  throwing  to  the  ground  the 
shears  with  a  bang. 

"What  is  it?    Be  quiet!" 

"Pa-pa!" 

Silence  in  the  room,  the  whizzing  and  wrathful  his 
sing  of  the  snowstorm  outside,  and  the  dull,  viscid  sounds 
of  the  bell.  The  idiot  is  slowly  turning  his  head,  and  his 
thin,  lifeless  legs,  with  the  curving  toes  and  the  tender 
soles  that  have  never  known  contact  with  firm  ground 
stir  feebly  and  impotently  strive  to  flee.  And  he  calls 
cg;ain: 

"Pa-pa!" 

"All  right.  Stop.  Listen,  I  will  read  you  some 
thing." 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  247. 

Father  Vassily  turned  back  the  page  and  began  with 
a  grave  and  severe  voice,  as  though  reading  in  church: 

"And  as  He  passed  by  He  saw  a  man  who  was  blind 
from  birth."  He  raised  his  hand  and  with  blanched  cheeks 
looked  up  at  Vassya. 

"Understand:  BLIND  FROM  BIRTH.  Had  never 
seen  the  light  of  the  sun,  the  face  of  his  near  ones  and 
dear  ones.  He  had  come  into  the  world  and  darkness 
had  enveloped  him.  Poor  man!  Blind  man!" 

The  voice  of  the  priest  resounds  with  the  firmness 
of  faith  and  with  the  transport  of  sated  compassion.  He 
is  silent,  he  is  staring  ahead  with  a  softly  smiling  gaze 
as  though  he  cannot  part  with  this  poor  man  who  was 
blind  from  birth  and  had  never  seen  the  face  of  a  friend 
and  had  never  thought  that  the  grace  of  God  was  so 
nigh.  Grace — and  mercy — and  mercy. 

"Boom !" 

"But  listen,  son.  'His  disciples  asked  Him:  Master 
who  did  sin,  this  man  or  his  parents  that  he  was  born 
blind?  Jesus  answered:  neither  hath  this  man  sinned, 
nor  his  parents,  but  that  the  works  of  God  should  be 
made  manifest  in  him/  " 

The  voice  of  the  priest  gathers  strength  and  fills  the 
barren  room  with  its  reverberations.  And  its  sonorous 
sounds  pierce  the  soft  purring  and  hissing  and  whis 
tling  and  the  lingering  cracked  tolling  of  the  choking 
church  bell.  The  idiot  is  filled  with  glee  over  the  flam 
ing  voice  and  the  brilliant  eyes  and  the  noise  and  the 
whistling  and  the  booming.  He  slaps  his  outstanding 
ears,  he  hums,  and  two  streams  of  viscid  saliva  flow  in 
two  dirty  currents  to  his  receding  chin. 

"Pa-pa!    Pa-pa!" 

"Listen,  listen :  'I  must  work  the  work  of  Him  that 
sent  me  while  it  is  day;  the  night  cometh  when  no  man 


248  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

can  work.  As  long  as  I  am  in  the  world,  I  am  the  light 
of  the  world/  Forever  and  ever  for  ever  and  ever !"  into 
the  teeth  of  the  night  and  of  the  snowstorm  he  flings  a 
passionately  ringing  challenge.  "For  ever  and  ever!" 
The  churchbell  is  calling  to  the  wanderers,  and  im- 
potently  weeps  its  aged  broken  voice.  And  the  night 
is  swinging  on  its  black,  blind  notes:  "Two  of  them, 
two  of  them,  two-two-two !" 

Dimly  Father  Vassily  hears  it  and  with  a  stern  re 
proof  he  turns  to  the  idiot: 

"Stop  that  mumbling!" 

But  the  idiot  is  silent,  and  once  more  eyeing  him 
dubiously  Father  Vassily  continues: 

"  'I  am  the  light  of  the  world.  When  he  had  thus 
spoken,  he  spat  on  the  ground,  and  made  clay  of  the 
spittle,  and  he  anointed  the  eyes  of  the  blind  man  with 
the  clay.  And  said  unto  him,  Go  wash  in  the  pool  of 
Siloam.  He  went  his  way  therefore, — and  washed,  and 
came  seeing." 

"SEEING!  Vassya,  SEEING!"  menacingly  cried 
the  priest  and  leaping  from  his  seat  he  began  to  pace 
the  floor  swiftly.  Then  he  stopped  in  the  center  of  the 
room  and  loudly  cried : 

"I  believe,  O  Lord,  I  believe." 

And  all  was  still.  But  a  loud  galloping  peal  of 
laughter  broke  the  silence,  striking  the  priest's  back. 
And  he  turned  about  terrified. 

"What  sayest  thou?"  he  asked  in  fear,  stepping  back. 

The  idiot  was  laughing.  The  senseless,  ominous 
laughter  had  torn  his  immense  immobile  mask  from  ear 
to  ear  and  out  of  the  wide  chasm  of  his  mouth  rushed 
unrestrained,  galloping  peals  of  oddly  vacant  laughter. 

"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  249 


XL 

On  the  eve  of  Whitsunday,  the  bright  and  happy 
festival  of  spring  time,  the  peasants  were  digging  sand 
to  strew  over  the  village  roadways.  The  peasants  of 
Snamenskoye  had  for  several  years  past  carted  huge 
supplies  of  rich  red  sand  from  pits  located  a  distance 
of  two  versts  from  their  village,  in  a  clearing  which  they 
had  made  in  a  dense  wood  of  low  birch,  pine  and  young 
oak  trees.  It  was  in  the  beginning  of  June,  but  the  grass 
was  already  waist  high,  hiding  half-way  the  luxuriant 
and  mighty  verdure  of  the  riotous  bushes  and  their 
humid,  green,  broad  foliage.  And  there  were  many 
flowers  that  year,  with  a  multitude  of  bees  flitting  from 
blossom  to  blossom.  The  bees  poured  their  rhythmical, 
ardent  humming,  the  flowers  shed  their  sweetly  plain 
fragrance  down  the  crumbling,  sliding  slopes  of  the  ex 
cavation.  For  several  days  the  air  had  been  heavy  with 
the  threat  of  a  storm.  It  was  felt  in  the  heated,  windless 
atmosphere,  in  the  dewless,  stifling  nights ;  the  anguished 
cattle  called  for  it,  pleadingly  lowed  for  it  with  stretched- 
out  heads.  And  the  people  were  gasping  for  breath,  but 
abnormally  elated.  The  motionless  air  crushed  and  de 
pressed  them,  but  something  restless  was  urging  them 
on  to  movement,  to  loud,  abrupt  conversation,  to  cause 
less  laughter. 

Two  men  were  at  work  in  the  pits,  Nicon,  the 
verger,  who  was  taking  sand  for  the  church,  and  the 
village  elder's  laborer,  Semen  Mossyagin.  Ivan  Porfy- 
ritch  loved  an  abundance  of  sand  both  in  the  street  in 
f-ont  of  his  house  and  all  over  his  cobblestone  yard,  and 
Semen  had  taken  away  one  cartload  in  the  morning  and 
was  now  loading  another  wagon,  briskly  throwing  up 


250  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

shovelfuls  of  golden,  ruddy  sand.  He  rejoiced  in  the 
heat  and  in  the  humming,  in  the  fragrance  and  in  the 
pleasure  of  toil:  he  looked  up  with  a  challenge  Into  the 
face  of  the  morose  verger  who  was  lazily  scratching  up 
the  surface  of  the  sand  with  a  toothless  scraper,  and  he 
mocked  him: 

"Well,  old  friend,  Nicon  Ivanytch,  we're  doomed  to 
blush  unseen." 

"Say  that  again,"  replied  the  verger  with  a  lazy  and 
indefinite  menace,  and  as  he  spoke  the  pipe  which  he  was 
smoking  dropped  from  his  mouth  into  the  grey  under 
growth  of  his  beard  and  threatened  to  fall. 

"Look  out,  you'll  lose  your  pipe,"  Semen  warned 
him. 

Nicon  did  not  reply,  and  Semen,  unabashed,  contin 
ued  to  dig.  During  the  six  months  which  he  had  spent 
in  the  service  of  Ivan  Porfyritch  he  had  grown  smooth 
and  round  like  a  cucumber,  and  his  simple  tasks  came 
nowhere  near  exhausting  his  overabundance  of  vigor  and 
energy.  He  alertly  attacked  the  sand,  digging  in  and 
throwing  it  up  with  the  agility  and  swiftness  of  a  hen 
scratching  for  grain;  he  gathered  the  golden  gleaming 
sand,  shaking  up  the  spade  like  a  wide  and  garrulous 
tongue.  But  the  pit  from  which  many  cartloads  had  been 
taken  the  day  before  seemed  exhausted  and  Semen  re 
solutely  spat  out. 

"Can't  dig  much  here.  Shall  I  try  yonder?"  he 
glanced  up  at  a  low  little  cave  which  had  been  dug  in  the 
crumbling  sloping  side  of  the  pit  and  in  which  he  saw 
a  motley  series  of  red  and  greenish  grey  layers,  and  he 
determinedly  walked  towards  it. 

The  verger  looked  at  the  little  cave  and  thought: 
"It  might  slide,"  yet  he  did  not  say  a  word.  But  Semen 
sensed  the  peril  in  the  instinctive  onrush  of  a.  vague  anx- 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  251 

iety  which  overcame  him  like  a  sudden  attack  of  passing 
nausea  and  he  stopped: 

"Do  you  think  it  will  slide  on  me?"  he  asked  as  he 
turned  around. 

"How  should  I  know?"  replied  the  verger. 

In  the  deep  recesses  of  the  cave — which  resembled 
a  yawning  mouth,  there  was  something  treacherous,  v 
something  traplike,  and  Semen  wavered.  But  from  above, 
where  the  leaves  of  a  young  oak  tree  were  sharply  out 
lined  against  the  azure  sky,  he  caught  the  stimulating 
whiff  of  fresh  foliage  and  blossoms,  and  this  stimulating 
fragrance  incited  to  gay  and  daring  deeds.  Semen  spat 
rut  into  his  palm,  seized  his  shovel,  but  after  the  second 
thrust  a  faint  crunch  was  heard,  and  the  whole  slope 
of  the  excavation  slid  down  without  a  sound  and  buried 
him.  And  only  the  young  tree  which  barely  hung  on 
by  its  roots  feebly  moved  its  leaves,  while  a  round  lump 
of  dried  sand  looking  so  bland  and  innocent  rolled  over 
to  the  feet  of  the  verger  from  whose  cheeks  all  color  had 
fled.  Two  hours  later  Semen  was  taken  out  dead.  His 
broad  open  mouth,  with  the  clean  and  pearly  teeth,  was 
stuffed  tight  with  the  golden  gleaming  sand.  And  all 
over  his  face,  amid  the  white  eyelashes  of  his  hollow 
eyes,  mingled  with  his  sunny  hair  and  the  flaming  red 
beard  glistened  the  gold  of  the  beautiful  sand.  And  still 
the  tangled  mass  of  his  auburn  hair  was  whirling  and 
dancing,  and  the  gay  absurdity,  the  daredevil  merriment 
of  that  dance  around  the  pallid  face  that  had  settled  into 
the  rigor  of  death  created  the  impression  of  a  fiendish 
mockery. 

With  the  curious  throng  attracted  by  the  news  of 
the  accident,  Senka,  the  little  son  of  the  perished  man, 
had  come  on  the  run.  No  one  thought  of  giving  him  a 
lift,  and  he  had  run  the  whole  way  in  the  rear  of  th« 


252  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

village  wagons;  while  his  father's  body  was  being  re 
leased  from  the  slide,  he  was  standing  aside  on  a  mound 
of  clay,  motionless,  breathing  heavily,  and  as  immobile 
were  his  eyes  with  which  he  devoured  the  melting  ava 
lanche  of  sand. 

The  dead  man  was  laid  on  a  wagon,  atop  of  the 
golden  load  of  sand  which  he  himself  had  thrown  upon 
it ;  they  covered  the  body  with  a  mat,  and  drove  away  at 
a  slow  pace  over  the  rutty  forest  road.  In  the  rear  of 
the  funeral  wagon  stolidly  strode  the  villagers  scattering 
;n  groups  among  trees,  and  their  blouses  struck  by  the 
rays  of  the  sun  flashed  crimson  through  the  wood.  When 
the  cortege  passed  the  two-story  house  of  Ivan  Porfyritch 
the  verger  suggested  that  t«he  corpse  be  taken  to  his 
house : 

"He  was  his  farmhand,  let  him  bury  him." 
But  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  either  in  the  windows 
or  about  the  house  and  the  shop  was  locked  with  a  pon 
derous  iron  padlock.  For  a  long  time  they  knocked 
against  the  massive  gates  decorated  with  black  flat- 
headed  nails,  then  they  rang  the  sonorous  doorbell,  and 
its  reverberating  echoes  resounded  sharply  and  loudly 
somewhere  around  the  corner,  but  though  the  court 
dogs  yelled  themselves  hoarse,  for  a  long  time  no  one 
came.  Finally  an  old  scullery  woman  came  out  and  an 
nounced  that  her  master  ordered  the  body  to  be  taken 
to  the  dead  man's  home,  and  promised  to  donate  the 
sum  of  ten  roubles  towards  funeral  expenses,  without 
deducting  the  gift  from  the  earnings  of  the  deceased. 
While  she  was  arguing  with  the  throng  outside,  Ivan 
Porfyritch  himself,  frightened  to  death  and  wrathful,  was 
standing  behind  the  curtains,  gazing  with  a  shudder  upon 
the  mat  that  covered  the  corpse  and  he  whispered  to  his 
wife : 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  253 

"Remember,  if  that  priest  offers  me  a  million  roubles 
T  shall  not  shake  hands  with  him,  I'd  sooner  see  it 
wither  away.  He  is  a  terrible  man." 

And  no  one  knew  why,  whether  because  of  the 
churchwarden's  mysterious  words  or  from  some  other 
source,  confused  and  ominous  rumors  swiftly  appeared 
in  the  village  and  crept  back  and  forth  like  hissing 
snakes.  The  villagers  talked  of  Semen,  of  his  sudden 
and  terrible  death,  and  they  thought  of  the  priest,  not 
knowing  what  they  were  expecting  of  him.  When  Father 
Vassily  started  on  his  way  to  the  requiem  mass,  pale 
and  burdened  by  vague  musings,  but  cheery  and  smil 
ing,  the  people  in  his  path  stepped  aside  giving  him  a 
wide  berth,  and  for  a  long  time  wavered  before  they 
dared  to  step  upon  a  spot  where  his  heavy  footsteps  had 
burned  an  invisible  trace.  They  remembered  the  fire  in 
his  house  and  talked  of  it  at  great  length.  They  recalled 
the  Popadya  who  had  burned  to  death  and  her  son,  the 
crippled  idiot,  and  back  of  plain,  clear  words  scurried 
the  sharp  thorns  of  fear.  Some  woman  sobbed  out  aloud 
with  a  vague,  overwhelming  compassion,  and  went  away. 
Those  who  stayed  back  for  a  long  time  watched  her  de 
parting  sobshaken  back,  then  in  silence,  avoiding  to  look 
at  one  another,  they  dispersed.  The  youngsters,  reflect 
ing  the  agitation  of  their  elders,  gathered  at  dusk  on  the 
threshing  floor  and  were  exchanging  fanciful  tales  of 
the  dead  man,  while  their  bulging  eyes  sparkled  darkly. 
Cozily  familiar  irritated  parental  voices  had  been  call 
ing  them  to  their  homes  for  a  long  time,  but  their  bare 
feet  were  loth  to  make  a  homeward  dash  through  the 
gruesome  diaphanous  dusk  of  evening.  And  during  the 
two  days  which  preceded  the  funeral  there  was  a  cease 
less  stream  of  villagers  wending  their  way  to  view  the 
corpse  that  was  puffed-up  and  rapidly  turning  blue. 


254  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

The  two  nights  before  the  funeral  the  earth  had 
been  exhaling  a  breath  of  the  most  intense  torridity,  and 
the  dry  meadows  consumed  beneath  the  merciless  heat 
of  the  sun  were  bare  of  vegetation.  The  sky  was  clear 
and  dark,  few  stars  were  out  and  these  shone  dimly. 
And  above  all  reigned  on  all  sides  the  ceaseless  chatter 
of  the  crickets.  When  after  the  memorial  vesper  service 
Father  Vassily  emerged  from  the  hut,  it  was  dark  al 
ready,  and  the  sleepy  street  was  unlighted.  Stifled  with 
the  close  atmosphere,  the  priest  had  taken  off  his  broad- 
rimmed  hat  and  was  walking  with  a  noiseless  stride  as 
though  over  a  soft  and  downy  carpet.  And  it  was  rather 
from  a  vague  sense  of  instinctive  anxiety  than  from  the 
sense  of  hearing  that  he  realized  that  someone  was  fol 
lowing  him,  evidently  suiting  his  stride  to  his  own  de 
liberate  gait.  The  priest  stopped,  the  pursuer  who  had 
not  expected  this,  advanced  a  few  steps  and  also  stopped 
rather  abruptly. 

"Who  is  this?"  asked  Father  Vassily. 

The  man  was  silent.  Then  he  suddenly  veered 
around,  and  swiftly  retired  without  decreasing  his  pace, 
and  a  moment  later  he  was  lost  in  the  trackless  gloom 
of  the  night. 

The  same  thing  happened  the  following  night;  a 
tall,  dark  man  followed  the  priest  to  the  very  gate  or 
Ids  house,  and  something  in  the  bearing  and  in  the  stride 
of  the  heavily  built  stranger  reminded  the  priest  of  Ivan 
Porfyritch,  the  churchwarden. 

"Ivan  Porfyritch,  is  it  you?"  he  called.  But  the 
stranger  did  not  reply  and  departed.  And  as  Father 
Vassily  was  retiring  for  the  night  someone  tapped  softly 
at  his  window.  The  priest  looked  out,  but  not  a  soul 
was  to  be  seen.  "Why  is  he  roaming  about  like  an  evil 
spirit?"  thought  the  priest  in  annoyance,  making  ready 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  255 

to  kneel  down  for  his  protracted  devotions.  And  lost  in 
prayer  he  forgot  the  churchwarden  and  the  night  that 
was  restlessly  spreading  over  the  earth,  and  himself;  he 
was  praying  for  the  deceased,  for  his  wife  and  children, 
for  the  bestowal  of  the  great  mercy  of  God  upon  the 
earth  and  its  inhabitants.  And  in  fathomless  sunny 
depths  a  new  world  was  assuming  vague  outlines,  and 
this  world  was  earth  no  more. 

While  he  was  praying  the  idiot  had  slipped  from  his 
bed,  noisily  shuffling  his  reviving  but  still  feeble  legs. 
He  had  learned  to  crawl  in  the  beginning  of  the  spring, 
and  frequently  on  returning  home  Father  Vassily  found 
him  on  the  threshold,  sitting  motionless  like  a  dog  be 
fore  the  locked  door.  Now  he  had  started  towards  the 
open  window,  moving  slowly,  with  much  effort,  and 
shaking  his  head  intently.  He  had  reached  it,  and  hooK- 
ing  his  powerful  prehensile  hands  in  the  window  sill  he 
raised  himself  up  and  peered  sullenly,  greedily  into  the 
darkness.  He  was  listening  to  something. 

Mossyagin  was  to  be  buried  on  Whitmonday,  and 
the  day  dawned  ominous  and  uncertain,  as  though  the 
confusion  of  people  had  found  its  counterpart  in  the 
formless  confusion  of  nature.  It  had  been  oppressively 
hot  since  morning,  the  very  grass  seemed  to  curl' up  and 
wither  before  one's  eyes  as  though  seared  by  a  merciless 
fire.  And  the  dense  opaque  sky  impended  threateningly 
ever  the  earth,  and  its  filmy  blue  seemed  to  be  zigzagged 
with  thin  veins  of  bloody  red,  so  ruddy  it  was,  so  sonor 
ous  with  metallic  nuances  and  shades.  The  enormous 
sun  was  blazing  with  heat,  and  it  was  so  strange  to  see 
it  shine  so  brightly,  while  nowhere  the  sharply  defined 
and  restful  shadows  of  a  sunny  day  were  to  be  found,  as 
though  between  sun  and  earth  hung  some  invisible  but 
none  the  less  solid  curtain  intercepting  its  rays. 


256  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

And  over  all  reigned  a  stillnes  that  was  mute  and 
ponderous,  as  though  an  invalid  had  lost  himself  in  a 
labyrinth  of  musing,  and  with  drooping  eyelids  had 
lapsed  into  silence.  Grey  rows  of  young  birches  with 
withered  leaves,  cut  down  with  the  roots,  stretched 
through  the  village  in  serried  ranks,  and  this  aimless 
procession  of  young  grey  trees,  perishing  from  thirst 
and  fire  and  spectrelike  refusing  to  cast  shadows,  filled 
the  mind  with  sadness  and  vague  forebodings.  The 
golden  grains  of  sand  that  had  been  scattered  over  the 
roadways  had  long  since  turned  into  yellow  dust,  and 
the  refuse  of  festive  sunflower  pips  of  the  day  before 
surprised  the  eye:  it  babbled  of  something  peaceful, 
simple  and  pleasant,  while  all  that  had  remained  in  par 
alyzed  nature  seemed  so  stern,  so  morbid,  so  pensive,  so 
menacing. 

While  Father  Vassily  was  donning  his  raiments  Ivan 
Porfyritch  entered  into  the  altar  enclosure.  Through 
the  sweat  and  the  purpling  flush  of  heat  that  covered  his 
face  timidly  peered  a  grey  earthy  pallor.  His  eyes  were 
swollen,  and  burning  feverishly.  His  hurriedly  combed 
hair,  matted  with  cider,  had  dried  in  spots  and  stuck  out 
in  confused  thickets,  as  though  the  man  had  not  slept 
for  several  nights,  wallowing  in  the  throes  of  super 
human  terror.  He  seemed  somehow  unkempt  and  dis 
tracted;  he  had  forgotten  the  niceties  of  human  inter 
course,  failing  to  ask  the  priest's  blessing  or  even  to 
salute  him. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Ivan  Porfyritch?  Are 
you  ill?"  Father  Vassily  inquired  sympathetically,  ad 
justing  his  flowing  hair  that  had  caught  in  the  stiff  neck 
piece  of  his  chasuble;  in  spite  of  the  heat  his  face  was 
pale  and  concentrated. 

The  churchwarden  made  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  257 

"Just  so.     Nothing  important.     I  wanted  to  have  a 
talk  with  you,  Father." 

"Was  it  you— last  night?" 

"Yes,  and  the  night  before,  too.     Pardon  me,  I  had 
ro  intention..." 

He  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  once  more  oblivious  of 
niceties,  he  openly  blurted  out  trembling  with  fear: 

"I  am  scared.     I  have  never  been  scared  before  in 
my  life.    And  now  I  am  scared.    I  am  scared." 
"Of  what?"  asked  the  priest  in  amazement. 
Ivan   Porfyritch   looked  over  the   priest's   shoulder 
as  though  someone,  silent  and  dreadful,  were  hiding  be-, 
hind  him,  and  continued: 
"Death." 

They  were  regarding  one  another  in  silence. 
"Death.     It's  got  to  my  household.     Without  rime 
or  reason  it  will  carry  off  all  of  us.    All  of  us !    Why  in 
my  home  not  a  hen  dare  die  without  cause:  if  I  order 
chicken  soup,  a  hen  dies,  not  otherwise.     And  what  Is 
this  now?    Is  that  proper  order?    Pardon  me,  but  at  first 
I  had  not  even  guessed  it.     Pardon  me." 
"You  mean  Semen?" 

"Whom  else?  Sidor  or  Yevstigney?*)  Say,  you 
listen  to  me,  lad,"  coarsely  continued  the  churchwarden, 
out  of  his  mind  with  terror  and  wrath.  "Leave  these 
tricks  be.  We're  no  fools  here.  Get  out  of  here  while 
the  going  is  good.  Away  with  you." 

He  swung  his  head  with  an  energetic  nod  in  the 
direction  of  the  door  and  added: 
"And  be  lively  about  it." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Have  you  lost  your 
mind?" 


*)   Equivalent  to  "Tom,  Dick  and  Harry." 


258  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

"We'll  see  who's  lost  his  mind,  you  or  I.  What  devil's 
tricks  is  this  you  carry  on  here  every  morning?  Tm 
praying!  I'm  praying!' '  —he  nasally  mimicked  the  litur 
gical  intonation.  "This  is  no  way  to  pray.  Bide  your 
time,  bear  up  patiently,  don't  come  with  your  'I'm  pray 
ing'.  You're  a  pagan,  a  self-willed  rebel,  bending  things 
to  suit  yourself.  And  now  you're  bent  in  return :  what's 
become  of  Semen?  Where  is  Semen?  I  ask.  Why  have 
you  destroyed  him?  Where  is  Semen,  tell  me." 

He  roughly  rushed  towards  the  priest  and  heard  a 
curt,  stern  warning: 

"Away  form  the  altar,  blasphemer !" 

Purple  with  wrath  Ivan  Porfyritch  looked  down 
upon  the  priest  from  his  towering  height  and  froze  rigid 
with  his  mouth  wide-open.  Upon  him  gazed  abysmally 
a  pair  of  deep  eyes,  black  and  dreadful  like  the  ooze  of 
a  sucking  swamp,  and  some  strange  and  abundant  life 
was  throbing  behind  them,  some  one's  menacing  will  is 
sued  forth  from  behind  them  like  a  sharpened  sword. 
Eyes  alone.  Neither  face  nor  body  saw  Ivan  Porfyritch, 
but  only  eyes,  immense  like  a  house  wall,  high  as  the 
altar;  gaping,  mysterious,  commanding  eyes  were  gazing 
upon  him,  and  as  though  seared  by  a  consuming  flame 
he  unconsciously  wrung  his  hands  and  fled  knocking  his 
massive  shoulder  against  the  partition.  And  in  his  fear- 
chilled  spine,  through  the  thick  masonry  of  the  church 
walls,  he  still  felt  the  piercing  sting  of  those  black  and 
dreadful  eyes. 

XII. 

They  were  entering  the  church  with  cautious  steps 
and  took  up  their  stations  wherever  they  chanced  to  be, 
not  where  they  usually  stood  at  service,  where  they  liked 
or  where  they  were  accustomed  to  stand,  as  though  find- 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  239 

ing  it  improper  or  wicked  on  a  day  of  such  awe  and 
anguish  to  stick  to  trifling  habits  or  to  take  thought  of 
trivial  comforts.  And  they  took  up  their  stations,  hesitat 
ing  a  long  time  ere  daring  to  turn  their  heads  in  order 
to  look  around.  The  church  was  crowded  to  suffocation, 
yet  ever  fresh  rows  of  silent  newcomers  pressed  from 
the  rear.  And  all  were  silent,  all  were  gloomily,  anx 
iously  expectant,  and  the  crowded  nearness  of  fellow- 
creatures  gave  no  sense  of  security.  Elbow  was  touch 
ing  upon  elbow  and  yet  it  seemed  to  each  one  that  he 
was  standing  alone  in  a  boundless  waste.  Drawn  by 
strange  rumors  men  from  distant  villages,  from  strange 
parishes  had  come  to  the  little  church ;  these  were  bolder 
and  spoke  at  first  in  loud  tones,  but  they  too  soon  lapsed 
into  silence,  with  resentful  amazement,  but  impotent  like 
the  rest  to  break  through  the  invisible  chains  of  leaden 
stillness.  Every  one  of  the  lofty  stained  windows  was 
opened  to  admit  air,  and  through  them  gazed  the  threat 
ening  coppery  sky.  It  seemed  to  be  sulkily  peering  from 
window  to  window,  casting  over  all  a  dry,  metallic  re 
flection.  And  in  this  scattered  and  depressing,  but  none 
the  less  glaring  light  the  old  gilt  of  the  image  stand 
Siione  with  a  dull  and  irresolute  lustre,  irritating  the  eye 
with  the  chaotic  haziness  of  the  saints'  features.  Back 
of  one  of  the  windows  a  young  maple  tree  greened  mo 
tionless  and  dry,  and  many  eyes  were  riveted  upon  its 
broad  leaves  that  were  slightly  curled  with  the  heat. 
They  seemed  like  friends,  old,  restful  friends  in  this  op 
pressive  silence,  in  this  repressed  hubbub  of  feelings, 
r.mid  these  yellow  mocking  images. 

And  above  all  the  familiar,  restful  odors  of  church, 
above  the  sweet  fragrance  of  incense  and  wax  reigned 
the  pronounced,  repulsive  and  terrible  smell  of  corrup 
tion.  The  corpse  had  been  rapidly  decomposing,  and 


260  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

it  was  nauseatingly  terrible  to  approach  the  black  coffin 
which  contained  the  decaying  mass  of  rotting  and  stink 
ing  flesh.  It  was  terrible  merely  to  approach  it,  but 
around  it  four  persons  stood  motionless  like  the  coffin  it 
self:  the  widow  and  the  three  now  fatherless  children. 
Perhaps  they  too  smelt  the  stench,  but  they  refused  to 
believe  in  it.  Or  perhaps  they  smelt  nothing  and  fancied 
that  they  were  burying  their  dear  one  alive,  even  as 
most  folks  think  when  death  swiftly  and  unexpectedly 
snatches  away  one  who  is  near  and  dear  and  is  so  in 
separable  from  their  very  life.  But  they  were  silent, 
and  all  was  still,  and  the  threatening  coppery  sky  peered 
from  window  to  window  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd 
scattering  about  its  dry  and  distracted  glances. 

When  the  requiem  mass  had  begun,  with  its  wonted 
solemn  simplicity,  and  the  portly  and  kindhearted  deacon 
had  swung  his  censer  into  the  throng — all  breathed  free 
ly  with  the  relief  of  elation.  Some  exchanged  whispers ; 
others  more  resolute  heavily  shuffled  their  benumbed  feet ; 
still  others,  who  were  nearest  to  the  doors  slipped  out 
to  the  church  steps  for  a  rest  and  a  smoke.  But  smoking 
and  calmly  exchanging  small  talk  about  harvests,  the 
threatening  drouth  and  money  matters,  they  suddenly 
bethought  themselves  and  fearing  lest  something  momen 
tous  and  unexpected  might  occur  within  while  they  were 
away,  they  flung  aside  the  stubs  of  their  cigarettes  and 
rushed  back  into  the  church,  using  their  shoulders  as  a 
wedge  to  break  through  the  crowd.  And  thea  they  stopp 
ed.  The  service  was  proceeding  with  a  solemn  simplici 
ty  ;  the  aged  deacon  was  coughing  and  clearing  his  throat 
before  each  sentence  and  warningly  shaking  a  stubby  fat 
forefinger  whenever  his  gaze  discovered  a  whispering 
pair  in  the  throng.  Those  who  had  stepped  outside  be 
fore  the  close  of  the  requiem  mass  had  observed  that 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  261 

over  the  forest,  towards  the  sun,  a  hazily  blue  cloud  had 
risen  up  in  the  sky,  gradually  growing  dark  under  the 
rays  of  the  sun,  and  they  crossed  themselves  joyfully. 
Among  them  was  also  Ivan  Porfyritch ;  pale  and  ailing 
he  looked,  but  he  also  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  when 
he  saw  the  cloud,  but  immediately  lowered  his  eyes  with 
a  sullen  air. 

In  the  brief  interval  between  the  mass  and  the  al 
locution  to  the  corpse>  while  Father  Vassily  was  don 
ning  his  black  velvet  cassock,  the  deacon  smacked  his 
lips  and  said: 

"A  little  ice  would  come  in  handy,  for  he  smells 
rather  strong.  But  where  can  you  get  ice?  In  my  opin 
ion  it  is  well  to  keep  a  supply  in  the  church  for  such 
cases.  You  might  tell  the  churchwarden." 

"He  smells?"  dully  said  the  priest. 

"Don't  you  notice  it?  You  must  have  a  fine  nose! 
I'm  simply  done  for.  It  will  take  a  week  in  this  hot 
spell  to  get  the  stench  out  of  the  church.  Just  take 
notice.  I've  got  the  smell  in  my  beard,  I  swear." 

He  held  the  tip  of  his  grey  beard  to  his  nose,  smelt 
it  and  said  reproachfully: 

"Such  people!" 

Then  commenced  the  chanting.  And  once  more  the 
leaden  silence  oppressed  the  crowd  and  chained  each  one 
to  his  place,  cutting  him  off  from  among  his  fellow-men, 
surrendering  him  a  prey  to  agonizing  expectancy.  The 
old  verger  was  chanting.  He  had  seen  the  coming  of 
death  to  him  who  was  now  reposing  in  the  black  coffin 
and  frightening  the  attending  throng.  He  clearly  recalled 
the  innocent  lump  of  dried  earth  and  the  young  oak  tree 
that  trembled  with  its  finely  carved  leaves,  and  the  old, 
familiar,  lugubrious  words  came  to  life  in  his  mumbling 
mouth  and  hit  the  mark  surely  and  painfully.  And  he 


262  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

was  thinking  of  the  priest  with  anxiety  and  sorrow,  for 
in  these  impending  hours  of  horror  he  alone  of  all  other 
people  loved  Father  Vassily  with  a  shy  and  tender  af 
fection  and  he  was  close  to  his  great  rebellious  soul. 

"Verily  all  is  vanity,  and  life  is  shadow  and  dreams ; 
for  whoso  is  born  of  earth  striveth  for  all  things,  but  the 
Scripture  sayeth  that  when  we  gain  the  world  we  gain 
the  grave,  where  together  dwelleth  the  king  and  the  beg 
gar.  O  Lord  Christ,  give  peace  to  thy  servant,  for  Thou 
art  a  lover  of  mankind " 

Darkness  was  falling  upon  the  church,  the  purpling 
blue  ominous  darkness  of  an  eclipse,  and  all  had  sensed 
it  long  before  any  eye  had  discovered  it.  And  only  those 
whose  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  friendly  foliage  of  the 
maple  tree  outside  had  noticed  that  something  cast-iron 
grey  and  shaggy  had  crept  up  behind  it,  peered  into  the 
church  with  lifeless  eyes  and  resumed  it  climb  to  the 
cross  of  the  steeple. 

"...  .where  there  are  worldly  passions,  where  there 
are  the  dreams  of  timeservers,  where  there  is  gold  and 
silver,  where  there  is  a  multitude  of  slaves  and  fame,  all 
is  dust  and  ashes  and  shadows,'*  quivered  the  bitter 
words  on  senile  trembling  lips. 

Everyone  had  now  noticed  the  gathering  gloom  and 
turned  to  the  window.  Back  of  the  maple  tree  the  sky 
was  black  and  the  broad  leaves  looked  no  longer  green. 
They  had  grown  pale,  and  in  their  frightened  rigid  ap 
pearance  there  was  nothing  left  that  was  friendly  and 
reassuring.  Seeking  comfort  the  people  looked  into  their 
neighbors'  faces,  and  all  faces  were  ashen-grey,  all  faces 
were  pale  and  unfamiliar.  And  it  seemed  that  the  whole 
of  that  darkness — pouring  through  the  opened  windows 
in  broad  and  silent  streams,  had  concentrated  itself  in 
the  blackness  of  that  coffin  and  in  the  black-garbed 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  263 

priest:  so  black  was  the  silent  coffin,  so  black  was  that 
man — tall,  frigid  and  stern.  Surely  and  calmly  he  moved 
about,  and  the  blackness  of  his  garb  seemed  like  the 
source  of  light  amid  the  lack-lustre  gilt,  the  ashen-grey 
faces  and  the  lofty  windows  that  disseminated  gloom. 
But  moment  by  moment  a  puzzling  hesitancy  and  irre- 
soluteness  seemed  to  take  hold  of  him;  he  slowed  down 
his  steps  and  extending  his  neck  regarded  the  throng  in 
surprise,  as  though  he  was  startled  to  find  this  transfixed 
multitude  in  the  church  where  he  was  wont  to  worship 
in  solitude;  then  forgetting  the  multitude,  forgetting  that 
he  was  the  celebrant  he  made  his  way  distractedly  into 
the  altar  enclosure;  he  seemed  to  be  inwardly  torn  in 
two;  he  seemed  to  be  waiting  a  word,  a  command  or  a 
mighty,  all-solving  sensation — and  neither  would  come. 

"I  weep  and  I  sob  as  I  contemplate  death  and  see 
reclining  in  coffins  our  beauty  that  was  created  in  the 
image  of  God  and  is  now  become  formless,  inglorious  and 
unsightly.  O  marvel !  What  is  this  mystery  that  sur- 
roundeth  us?  How  are  we  surrendered  unto  corrup 
tion?  How  are  we  subjugated  unto  death?  Verily  by 
the  word  of  God...." 

Brightly  gleamed  the  tapers  in  the  gathering  gloom 
as  though  in  the  dusk  of  eve,  casting  ruddy  reflec 
tions  upon  the  faces  of  the  people,  and  many  had  noticed 
this  sudden  transition  from  day  to  night  while  it  was 
high  noon.  Father  Vassily  too  had  sensed  the  darkness 
without  comprehending  it ;  the  queer  notion  had  entered 
his  head  that  it  was  the  dark  of  the  early  winter  morn 
ing  when  he  remained  alone  with  God,  and  one  great 
and  mighty  feeling  had  given  wings  to  his  soul — like  a 
bird,  like  an  arrow  flying  unerringly  towards  its  goal. 
And  he  trembled,  unseeing  like  a  blind  man,  but  on  the 
point  of  receiving  sight.  Myriads  of  fugitive  and  tangled 


264  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

thoughts,  myriads  of  undefined  sensations  slowed  up 
their  frenzied  flight — stopped — died  away — a  moment  of 
terrible  nothingness,  precipitous  falling,  death,  and  some 
thing  rose  up  within  his  breast,  something  immense, 
something  undreamt  of  in  its  joyous  glory,  in  its 
wondrous  beauty.  The  heart  that  had  stood  still  was 
thumping  forth  its  first  beats,  painfully,  laboriously,  but 
he  already  knew.  It  had  come !  It,  the  mighty,  all-solv 
ing  sensation,  master  over  life  and  death,  able  to  com 
mand  to  the  mountains:  "Move  from  your  place!"  and 
the  hoary  and  cranky  mountains  must  move.  Glory, 
ineffable  glory!  He  is  gazing  upon  the  coffin,  into  the 
church,  upon  the  faces  of  people  and  he  comprehends — 
he  comprehends  everything  with  that  wonderful  penetra 
tion  into  the  depth  of  things  which  is  possible  only  in 
dreams  and  which  disappears  without  a  trace  at  the  ap 
proach  of  light.  So  that  was  it!  That  was  the  great 
solution!  Glory!  Glory!  Glory! 

He  laughs  out  loudly  and  hoarsely,  he  sees  the  fright 
ened  expression  of  the  deacon  who  had  warningly  raised 
his  finger,  he  sees  the  crouching  backs  of  the  people  who 
having  heard  his  laughter  burrow  gangways  through 
the  crowd  like  worms,  and  he  claps  his  hand  over  his 
mouth  like  a  guilty  schoolboy. 

"I  won't  any  more,"  he  whispers  into  the  deacon's 
ear,  while  insane  .rejoicing  is  fairly  splashing  fire  from 
every  pore  of  his  face.  And  he  weeps,  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"Take  some  drops,  some  drops,  Father  Vassily,"  the 
distracted  deacon  whispers  into  his  ear  and  desperately 
exclaims:  "Lord,  Lord,  'how  out  of  place!  Listen, 
Father  Vassily!" 

The  priest  moves  his  folded  hands  an  inch  or  two 
from  his  face,  and  looks  from  behind  their  shelter  askance 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  265 

at  the  deacon.  The  deacon  with  a  shiver,  edges  away 
on  tiptoe,  feels  his  way  to  the  gate  with  his  belly,  and 
groping  for  the  door  emerges  out  of  the  altar  enclosure. 

"Come,  let  us  give  our  last  kiss,  brethren,  to  the 
departed  one,  giving  thanks  unto  God " 

A  commotion  ensues  in  the  church;  some  depart 
stealthily  without  exchanging  any  words  with  those  who 
remain,  and  the  darkened  church  is  now  only  comfort 
ably  filled.  Only  about  the  black  coffin  is  the  surge  of 
a  silent  throng,  people  are  making  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
bending  their  heads  over  something  dreadful  and  repul 
sive  and  moving  away  with  wry  countenances.  The 
widow  is  parting  from  her  husband.  She  now  believes 
in  his  death  and  she  is  conscious  of  the  nauseating  odor, 
but  her  eyes  are  locked  to  tears  and  there  is  no  voice  in 
her  throat.  And  the  children  are  watching  her  with  three 
pairs  of  silent  eyes. 

And  while  the  people  watched  the  deacon  plunging 
worriedly  through  the  congregation,  Father  Vassily  had 
come  out  into  the  chancel  and  stood  eyeing  the  crowd. 
And  those  who  saw  him  in  that  moment  had  indelibly 
engraved  in  their  memory  his  striking  appearance.  He 
was  holding  on  with  his  hands  to  the  railing  so  con 
vulsively  that  the  tips  of  his  fingers  turned  livid;  with 
neck  outstretched,  the  whole  of  his  body  bent  over  the 
railing,  and  pouring  himself  into  one  immense  glance  he 
riveted  it  upon  the  spot  where  the  widow  stood  beside 
her  children.  And  it  was  queer  to  see  him,  for  it  seemed 
as  though  he  delighted  in  her  boundless  anguish,  so 
cheerful,  so  radiant,  so  daringly  happy  was  his  impetuous 
glance. 

"What  partings,  O  brethren,  what  weepings,  what 
sobbing  in  this  present  hour ;  come  hither,  imprint  a  kiss 
upon  the  brow  of  him  who  from  his  early  youth  hath 


266  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

dwelt  among  you,  for  he  is  now  to  be  consigned  to  his 
grave,  surmounted  by  a  stone,  to  take  up  his  dwelling  in 
the  darkness,  being  buried  with  the  dead,  parting  from 
his  kin  and  his  friends..." 

"Stop,  thou  madman !"  an  agonized  voice  came  from 
the  chancel.  "Canst  thou  not  see  there  is  none  dead 
among  us?" 

And  here  occurred  that  mad  and  great  event  for 
which  all  had  been  waiting  with  such  dread  and  such 
mystery.  Father  Vassily  flung  open  the  clanging  gate, 
and  strode  through  the  crowd  cutting  its  motley  array 
of  colors  with  the  solemn  black  of  his  attire  and  made 
his  way  to  the  black,  silently  waiting  coffin.  He  stopped, 
laised  his  right  hand  commandingly  and  hurriedly  said 
to  the  decomposing  corpse: 

"I  say  unto  thee:  Arise." 

In  the  wake  of  these  words  came  confusion,  noise> 
screams,  cries  of  mortal  terror.  In  a  panic  of  fear  the 
people  rushed  to  the  doors,  transformed  into  a  herd  of 
frightened  beasts.  They  clutched  at  one  another,  threat 
ened  one  another  with  gnashing  teeth,  choking  and  roar 
ing.  And  they  poured  out  of  the  door  with  the  slowness 
of  water  trickling  out  of  an  overturned  bottle.  There 
remained  only  the  verger  who  had  dropped  his  book, 
the  widow  with  her  children,  and  Ivan  Porfyritch.  The 
latter  glanced  a  moment  at  the  priest  and  leaping  from 
his  place  cut  his  way  into  the  rear  of  the  departing 
throng,  bellowing  with  wrath  and  fear. 

With  the  radiant  and  benign  smile  of  compassion 
towards  their  unbelief  and  fear — all  aglow  with  the  might 
of  limitless  faith,  Father  Vassily  repeated  for  the  second 
time  with  solemn  and  regal  simplicity: 

"I  say  unto  thee,  Arise!" 

But  still  is  the  corpse  and  its  tightly  locked  lips  are 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  267 

dispassionately  guarding  the  secret  of  Eternity.  And 
silence.  Not  a  sound  is  heard  in  the  deserted  church. 
But  now  the  resonant  clatter  of  scattered  frightened  foot 
steps  over  the  flagstones  of  the  church:  the  widow  and 
the  orphans  are  going.  In  their  wake  flees  the  verger, 
stopping  for  an  instant  in  the  doorway  he  wrings  his 
hands,  and  silence  once  more. 

"It  is  better  so.  How  can  he  rise  in  this  state  be 
fore  his  wife  and  children?"  swiftly  flits  through  Father 
Vassily's  mind,  and  for  the  third  and  last  time  he  com 
mands,  softly  and  sternly: 

"Simeon,  I  say  unto  thee :  Arise !" 

Slowly  sinks  his  hand,  he  is  waiting.  Someone's 
footsteps  rustle  in  the  sand  just  outside  of  the  window 
and  the  sound  seems  so  near  as  though  it  came  from  the 
coffin.  He  is  waiting.  The  footsteps  come  nearer  and 
nearer,  pass  the  window  and  die  away.  And  stillness,  and 
a  protracted  agonized  sigh.  Who  is  sighing?  He  is 
bending  over  the  coffin,  seeking  a  movement  of  life  in  the 
puffed  up  and  formless  face;  he  commands  to  the  eyes: 
"But  open  ye,  I  say,"  bends  still  lower,  closer  and  closer, 
clutches  the  edges  of  the  coffin  with  his  hands,  almost 
touching  the  livid  lips  and  trying  to  breathe  the  breath 
of  life  into  them,  and  the  shaken  corpse  replies  with 
the  coldly  ferocious  fetid  exhalation  of  death. 

He  reels  back  in  silence  and  for  an  instant  sees  and 
comprehends  all.  He  smells  the  terrible  odor ;  he  realizes 
that  the  people  had  fled  in  terror,  that  in  the  church 
there  are  only  he  and  the  corpse;  he  sees  the  darkness 
beyond  the  window,  but  does  not  comprehend  its  nature. 
A  memory  of  something  horribly  distant  flashes  through 
his  mind,  of  some  vernal  laughter  that  had  been  ringing 
in  a  dim  past  and  then  died  away.  He  remembers  the 
snowstorm.  The  church  bell  and  the  snowstorm.  And 


268  LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY 

the  immobile  mask  of  the  idiot.  Two  of  them..  Two  of 
them..  Two  of  them... 

And  once  more  all  is  gone.  The  lacklustre  eyes  are 
once  again  ablaze  with  cold  and  leaping  fires,  the  sinewy 
body  is  bursting  once  more  with  a  sense  of  power  and 
of  iron  firmness.  Hiding  his  eyes  beneath  the  stony  arch 
of  his  brows,  he  says  calmly,  calmly,  softly,  softly  as 
though  fearing  to  wake  a  sleeper: 

"Wouldst  thou  cheat  me?" 

And  he  lapses  into  silence,  with  downcast  eyes,  as 
though  waiting  for  an  answer.  And  once  more  he  speaks 
softly,  softly,  with  that  ominous  distinctness  of  a  storm 
when  all  nature  has  bowed  to  its  power  and  it  is  dilly 
dallying,  tenderly,  regally  rocking  a  tiny  flake  in  the 
air. 

"Then  why  did  I  believe?" 

"Then  why  didst  Thou  give  me  love  towards  people 
and  compassion?  To  mock  me?" 

"Then  why  hast  Thou  kept  me  all  my  life  in  cap 
tivity,  in  servitude,  in  fetters?  Not  a  free  thought !  Not 
a  feeling!  Not  a  sigh!  THOU  alone,  all  for  THEE! 
THOU  only.  Come  then,  I  am  waiting  for  Thee !" 

And  in  the  posture  of  haughty  humility  he  waits  an 
answer — alone  before  the  black  and  malignantly  triumph 
ant  coffin,  alone  before  the  menacing  face  of  fathomless 
and  majestic  stillness.  Alone.  The  lights  of  the  tapers 
pierce  the  darkness  like  immobile  spears,  and  somewhere 
in  the  distance  the  fleeing  storm  mockingly  chants: 
"Two  of  them..  Two  of  them.."  Stillness. 

"Thou  wilt  not?"  he  asks  still  softly  and  humbly, 
but  suddenly  cries  out  with  a  frenzied  scream,  rolling 
his  eyes,  imparting  to  his  face  that  candor  of  expression 
which  is  characteristic  of  insanity  or  of  profound  slum 
ber.  He  cries  out,  drowning  with  his  cry  the  menacing 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  269 

stillness  and  the  ultimate  horror  of  the  dying  human 
soul  : 

"Thou  must !  Give  him  back  his  life !  Take  it  from 
ethers,  but  give  it  back  to  him !  I  beg  of  Thee !"  Then 
he  turns  to  the  silent  corruption  of  the  corpse  and  com 
mands  it  wrathfully,  scornfully: 

"THOU!    THOU  ask  Him!    Ask  Him! 

And  he  cries  out  blasphemously,  madly: 

"He  needs  no  paradise.  His  children  are  here  below. 
They  will  call  for  him:  'Father!'  And  he  will  say  to 
Thee :  'Take  from  my  head  my  heavenly  crown,  for  there 
below  the  heads  of  my  children  are  covered  with  dust 
and  dirt.  Thus  he  will  speak!" 

Wrathfully  he  shakes  the  heavy  black  coffin  and 
ciies: 

"But  speak  thou,  speak,  accursed  flesh !" 

He  looks  with  amazement,  intently.  And  in  mute 
horror  he  reels  backward  throwing  up  his  swelling  arms 
in  self-defence.  Semen  is  not  in  the  coffin.  There  is  no 
corpse  in  the  coffin.  The  idiot  is  lying  there.  Clutching 
with  his  rapacious  fingers  at  its  edges,  he  has  slightly 
raised  his  monstrous  head,  looking  askance  at  the  priest 
with  eyes  screwed  up,  and  all  about  the  distended  nos 
trils,  all  about  the  enormous  tightly  compressed  mouth 
plays  the  silent  dawn  of  coming  laughter.  Not  a  sound 
he  utters,  but  keeps  gazing  and  slowly  creeping  out  of 
the  coffin — inexpressibly  terrible  in  the  incomprehensible 
fusion  of  eternal  life  with  eternal  death. 

"Back !"  cries  Father  Vassily  and  his  head  swells  to 
enormous  proportions  as  he  feels  his  hair  stand  on  end. 
"Back!" 

And  once  more  the  motionless  corpse.  And  again 
the  idiot.  And  the  rotting  mass  madly  alternates  this 


270  LIFE  OF  FAT  PIER  VASSILY 

monstrous  play  and  breathes  out  horrors.  And  in  mania 
cal  anger  he  shrieks: 

"Wouldst  scare  me?    Then  take..." 

But  his  words  are  unheard.  Suddenly,  all  aglow 
with  blinding  light,  the  immobile  mask  is  rent  from  ear 
to  ear  and  peals  of  laughter  mighty  as  the  peals  of 
thunder  fill  the  whole  silent  church.  With  a  loud  roar 
the  mad  laughter  splits  the  arching  masonry,  flinging 
the  stones  about  like  chips  and  engulfing  in  its  reverbera 
tions  the  lone  man  within. 

Father  Vassily  opens  his  blinded  eyes,  raises  his 
Lead  and  sees  all  about  him  crumble.  Slowly  and  ponder 
ously  reel  the  walls  and  close  together,  the  vaults  slide, 
the  lofty  cupola  noiselessly  collapses,  the  stone  floor 
sways  and  bends,  the  whole  world  is  being  wrecked  in 
its  foundations  and  disintegrates. 

And  then  with  a  shrill  scream  he  rushes  to  the  doors, 
but  failing  to  find  them  he  whirls  and  stumbles  against 
walls  and  sharp  corners  and  shrieks  and  shrieks.  The 
door  suddenly  opens,  precipitating  him  on  the  flags  out 
side,  but  he  leaps  to  his  feet  with  the  joy  of  relief,  only 
to  be  caught  and  held  in  someone's  trembling,  prehensile 
embrace.  He  struggles  and  whines,  freeing  his  hand 
with  maniacal  strength ;  he  rains  savage  blows  upon  the 
head  of  the  verger  who  is  attempting  to  hold  him,  and 
casting  his  body  aside  he  rushes  into  the  roadway. 

The  sky  is  ablaze  with  fire.  Shaggy  clouds  are  whirl 
ing  and  circling  in  the  firmament  and  their  combined 
masses  fall  down  upon  the  shaken  earth,  the  universe  is 
crumbling  in  its  foundations.  And  then  from  the  fiery 
whirlpool  of  chaos  the  thunderous  peals  of  laughter,  the 
cackle  and  cries  of  savage  merriment.  In  the  west  a  tiny 
ribbon  or  azure  is  still  to  be  seen,  and  towards  that  rift 
cf  blue  he  is  rushing  in  headlong  flight.  His  legs  are 


LIFE  OF  FATHER  VASSILY  271 

caught  in  the  long  hairy  cassock,  he  falls  and  writhes  on 
the  ground,  bleeding  and  terrible  to  look  upon,  and  rises 
and  flees  once  more.  The  street  is  desolate  as  though 
at  night,  not  a  man,  not  a  creature,  neither  beast,  nor 
fowl  to  be  seen  near  house  or  window. 

"They're  all  dead,"  flashes  through  his  mind — his 
last  conscious  thought.  He  runs  out  of  the  village  limits 
into  the  broad  highway.  Over  his  head  the  black  whirl 
ing  cloud  throws  out  three  lengthy  tentacles,  like  rapaci 
ously  curved  fingers ;  behind  him  something  is  roaring 
with  a  dull  and  threatening  bellow.  The  universe  is  col 
lapsing  in  its  foundations. 

Ahead  in  the  distance,  a  peasant  and  two  women  who 
had  been  to  the  village  church  are  wending  their  home 
ward  way  on  their  wagon.  They  notice  the  figure  of  a 
black-garbed  man  in  precipitous  flight;  they  stop  for  a 
moment,  but  recognizing  the  priest  they  whip  up  their 
horse  and  gallop  away.  The  wagon  leaps  high  on  its 
springs,  with  two  wheels  up  in  the  air,  but  the  three 
silently  crouching  terror-stricken  people  desperately  whip 
up  the  horse  and  gallop  and  gallop. 

Father  Vassily  fell  about  three  versts  away  from  the 
village  in  the  center  of  the  broad  highway.  He  fell  prone, 
his  haggard  face  buried  in  the  grey  dust  which  had  been 
ground  fine  by  the  wheels  of  traffic,  trampled  by  the  feet 
of  men  and  beasts.  And  in  his  pose  he  had  retained  the 
impetuousness  of  his  flight:  the  white  dead  hands  out 
stretched,  one  leg  curled  up  under  the  body,  the  other — 
clad  in  an  old  tattered  boot  with  the  sole  worn  through 
— long,  straight  and  sinewy,  thrown  back  tense  and 
taut,  as  though  even  in  death  he  still  continued  his  flight. 


BEN-TOBITH. 


275 


On  that  dread  day,  when  the  cosmic  injustice  was  per 
petrated,  and  Jesus  Christ  was  crucified  in  the  midst  of 
robbers  on  Golgotha,  Ben-Tobith,  a  tradesman  of  Jerusalem, 
had  been  suffering  since  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  the 
agonies  of  an  excruciating  toothache. 

It  had  started  the  day  before,  toward  evening;  at  first 
his  right  jaw  had  commenced  to  ache  slightly,  and  one 
tooth,  the  extreme  tooth  next  to  the  wisdom  tooth,  seemed 
to  rise  a  little,  and  felt  painful  when  coming  in  contact  with 
the  tongue.  After  the  evening  meal,  however,  the  pain  had 
entirely  subsided;  Ben-Tobith  had  forgotten  it  altogether 
and  felt  no  worry  about  it ;  that  day  he  had  profitably  traded 
his  old  ass  for  a  young  and  strong  animal,  at  a  profit, 
and  he  was  in  a  merry  mood  and  did  not  attach  any  signi 
ficance  to  an  evil  omen. 

And  he  had  slept  well  and  soundly,  but  before  the 
dawn  of  day  something  commenced  to  disturb  him,  as  if 
someone  sought  to  rouse  him  to  attend  to  an  important 
matter,  and  when  Ben-Tobith  woke  up  wrathfully,  his  teeth 
were  aching,  aching  defiantly  and  fiercely,  with  the  ex 
cruciating  fury  of  sharp  and  throbbing  pain.  And  now  it 
was  impossible  to  tell  whether  it  was  still  the  tooth  of  the 
day  before,  or  whether  others  had  joined  it  as  well;  his 
mouth  and  his  head  were  wholly  filled  with  the  dreadful 
agonizing  pain,  as  though  someone  forced  him  to  masticate 
a  thousand  red-hot  sharply  pointed  nails. 

He  took  in  his  mouth  a  swallow  of  water  from  an 
earthern  pitcher;  for  an  instant  the  fury  of  the  pain  sub 
sided;  the  teeth  twitched  with  undulating  throbs,  and  this 


276  BEN-TOBITH 

new  sensation  seemed  even  agreeable  in  comparison  with 
the  pain  that  had  preceded  it. 

Ben-Tobith  lay  down  again;  he  bethought  himself  of 
his  newly  purchased  ass;  he  mused  how  happy  he  would 
it  be  if  it  were  not  for  his  teeth,  and  tried  to  sleep.  But 
the  water  was  warm ;  within  five  minutes  the  pain  returned, 
with  greater  fury  than  ever,  and  Ben-Tobith  sat  up  in  his 
bed,  rocking  back  and  forth  like  a  pendulum. 

His  face  was  all  wrinkles,  and  something  seemed  to 
draw  it  toward  his  huge  nose — and  from  his  nose,  that  had 
turned  livid  with  agony,  hung  a  drop  of  cold  perspiration. 
Thus,  rocking  back  and  forth,  groaning  with  agony,  he 
faced  the  first  rays  of  that  sun  which  was  fated  to  see 
Golgotha  with  its'  three  crosses  and  then  to  be  dimmed  with 
horror  and  grief. 

Ben-Tobith  was  a  good  and  kindly  man,  who  disliked 
injustice,  but  when  his  wife  woke  up,  he  said  to  her  many 
disagreeable  things,  barely  able  to  open  his  mouth,  and 
complained  that  he  had  been  left  alone  like  a  Jackal  to  howl 
and  to  writhe  in  pain.  His  wife  bore  the  undeserved  re 
proaches  with  patience,  for  she  knew  that  they  came  not 
from  an  angry  heart,  and  she  brought  him  many  good  re 
medies  :  some  purified  rat  dung  to  be  applied  to  his  cheek, 
a  sharp  elixir  of  scorpion,  and  a  genuine  fragment  of  the 
tablets  of  the  law  broken  by  Moses. 

A  little  improvement  followed  the  application  of  rat 
dung,  though  it  did  not  last  long,  and  the  same  happened 
after  the  use  of  the  elixir  and  the  stone,  but  each  time  the 
pain  returned  with  added  vigor.  But  in  the  brief  moments 
of  respite  Ben-Tobith  comforted  himself  with  the  thoughts 
of  the  ass,  and  mused  about  him;  and  when  the  pain  grew 
worse,  he  groaned,  scolded  his  wife  and  swore  that  he 
would  dash  his  brains  out  against  a  stone  if  the  pain  did 
not  subside.  And  all  the  time  he  walked  back  and  forth 


BEN-TOB1TH  277 

upon  the  flat  roof  of  his  house,  from  one  corner  to  another, 
ashamed  to  come  close  to  the  edge  because  his  head  was 
all  tied  up  in  a  kerchief  like  a  woman's. 

Several  times  during  the  morning  his  children  came 
to  him  on  the  run  telling  him  something  with  hurried  voices 
about  Jesus  the  Nazarene.  Ben-Tobith  stopped  and  listened 
to  them  for  a  moment,  with  wrinkled  face,  but  then  angrily 
stamped  his  foot  and  drove  them  away.  He  was  a  kindly 
man,  fond  of  children,  but  now  it  annoyed  him  to  be  pes 
tered  with  all  sorts  of  trivial  things. 

It  was  also  annoying  to  him  that  the  streets  and  the 
neighboring  roofs  were  crowded  with  people  who  seemed  to 
have  nothing  to  do  but  gaze  curiously  upon  Ben-Tobith 
whose  head  was  tied  with  a  kerchief  like  a  woman's.  And 
he  was  already  on  the  point  of  going  downstairs,  when  his 
wife  said  to  him: 

"Look,  they'are  leading  the  robbers.  Perhaps  this 
might  take  your  mind  away  from  your  pain." 

"Leave  me  alone,  please.  Don't  you  see  how  I  suffer  ?" 
angrily  retorted  Ben-Tobith.  But  the  words  of  his  wife 
held  out  a  vague  promise  that  his  toothache  might  pass, 
and  he  reluctantly  walked  over  to  the  edge  of  the  roof.  In 
clining  his  head  to  one  side,  he  shut  one  eye,  held  a  hand 
to  his  cheek,  made  a  wry,  sniveling  grimace  and  looked 
down. 

Up  the  steep  ascent  of  the  narrow  street  moved  a  con 
fused  and  enormous  mob  of  people  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and 
with  a  ceaseless  uproar.  In  the  midst  of  it,  bowed  under 
the  burden  of  their  crosses,  marched  the  evildoers,  and 
over  their  heads  swished  the  whips  of  the  Roman  soldiers 
like  sinuous  dark-skinned  serpents.  One  of  them,  he  with 
the  long,  light  locks,  in  a  torn  and  blood-stained  cloak, 
stumbled  over  a  stone  which  someone  had  thrown  before 
his  feet  and  fell.  The  shouts  increased  in  loudness,  and 


278  BEN-TOBITH 

the  crowd  closed  in  about  the  fallen  man  like  a  sea  of 
motley  waves. 

Ben-Tobith  suddenly  shuddered  with  the  pain ;  it  seem 
ed  as  though  someone  had  pierced  his  tooth  with  a  red-hot 
needle  and  twisted  it  around;  he  groaned  "oo-oo-oo,"  and 
walked  away  from  the  edge  of  the  roof,  wryly  indifferent 
and  wrathful. 

"How  they  yell!"  he  enviously  muttered,  picturing  to 
himself  their  wide-opened  mouths  with  strong  and  pain-free 
teeth,  and  thinking  how  he  might  yell  himself  if  he  were 
only  well.  This  mental  picture  added  fury  to  his  pain,  and 
he  shook  his  bandaged  head  vehemently  and  howled  "moo- 
moo-moo." 

"They  say  that  he  healed  the  blind,"  observed  his  wife 
clinging  to  the  edge  of  the  roof  and  casting  a  stone  at  the 
spot  where  Jesus  was  slowly  moving  onward,  having  been 
raised  to  his  feet  by  the  soldiers'  whips. 

"Or  course!  Of  course!  He  might  have  cured  my 
toothache,"  replied  Ben-Tobith  sarcastically  and  with  irrita 
tion,  adding  bitterly:  "Just  look  at  the  dust  they  are  rais 
ing  !  Like  a  herd  of  cattle.  They  should  be  scattered  with 
rods.  Lead  me  downstairs,  Sarah!" 

The  wife  was  right;  the  spectacle  had  diverted  him 
somewhat,  or  perhaps  the  rat  dung  remedy  finally  proved 
its  efficacy,  and  he  managed  to  go  to  sleep.  And  when  he 
woke  up,  the  pain  was  almost  gone,  only  a  swelling  had 
formed  on  his  right  cheek,  so  slight  a  swelling,  in  fact,  as 
to  be  hardly  noticeable.  His  wife  said  that  it  could  not  be 
seen  at  all,  but  Ben-Tobith  smiled  craftily,  he  knew  what 
a  good  wife  he  had  and  how  ready  she  was  to  say  agree 
able  things.  His  neighbor,  Samuel,  the  tanner,  had  come 
meanwhile,  and  Ben-Tobith  took  him  to  see  the  new  ass; 
he  proudly  listened  to  his  neighbor's  words  of  praise  for 
the  animal  and  for  its  master. 


BEN-TOBITH  279 

Then,  at  the  suggestion  of  his  curious  wife  Sarah,  the 
three  of  them  walked  over  to  Golgotha  to  see  the  crucified. 
On  the  way  Ben-Tobith  related  to  Samuel  about  his  tooth 
ache  from  its  very  beginning,  how  the  day  before  he  had 
felt  a  twitch  of  pain  in  his  right  jaw,  and  how  during  the 
night  he  had  been  awakened  by  an  agonizing  pain.  By  way 
of  illustration  he  made  a  wry  face,  shutting  his  eyes,  shook 
his  head  and  groaned,  and  the  grey-bearded  Samuel  sympa- 
thizingly  nodded  and  said: 

"Tss-tss-tss,  what  suffering!" 

Ben-Tobith  was  gratified  by  this  expression  of  sym 
pathy  and  he  repeated  his  tale  and  reverted  to  that  distant 
past  when  his  first  tooth  had  commenced  to  turn  bad,  the 
left  tooth  in  the  lower  jaw.  In  such  animated  conversation 
they  reached  Golgotha.  The  sun  which  was  fated  to  shine 
upon  the  world  on  that  dread  day  had  meanwhile  set  be 
hind  the  distant  hillocks,  and  in  the  west  glowed  like  a 
bloody  stain  a  narrow  band  of  ruddy  crimson.  Against 
this  background  dimly  darkled  the  crosses,  and  kneeling  at 
the  foot  of  the  cross  in  the  center  some  white-garbed  figures 
glistened  vaguely  in  the  gathering  dusk. 

The  people  had  long  since  dispersed;  it  was  growing 
cold;  casting  a  fleeting  glance  upon  the  crucified  figures, 
Ben-Tobith  took  Samuel  by  his  arm  and  cautiously  turned 
him  in  the  direction  of  their  homes.  He  felt  unusually 
eloquent  and  he  was  anxious  to  tell  him  more  about  the 
toothache.  Thus  they  walked  homeward,  and  Ben-Tobith, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  Samuel's  sympathizing  nods  and 
exclamations,  made  once  more  a  wry  face,  shook  his  head 
and  moaned  artfully,  while  from  the  deep  crevices  and  the 
distant  arid  plains  rose  the  blackness  of  night.  As  though 
it  sought  to  cover  from  the  sight  of  heaven  the  great  mis 
deed  of  the  earth. 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 


283 


He  was  a  nonentity:  the  spirit  of  a  rabbit  and  the 
shameless  patience  of  a  beast  of  burden.  When  fate,  with 
malicious  mockery,  had  cast  him  into  our  somber  ranks, 
we  laughed  with  insane  merriment.  What  ridiculous,  ab 
surd  mistakes  will  happen!  But  he — he,  of  course,  wept. 
Never  in  my  life  have  I  seen  a  man  who  could  shed  so  many 
tears,  and  these  tears  seemed  to  flow  so  readily — from  the 
eyes,  from  the  nose,  from  the  mouth,  every  bit  like  a  water- 
soaked  sponge  compressed  by  a  fist.  And  even  in  our  ranks 
have  I  seen  weeping  men,  but  their  tears  were  like  a  con 
suming  flame  from  which  savage  beasts  flee  in  terror. 
These  manly  tears  aged  the  countenance  and  rejuvenated 
the  eyes:  like  lava  disgorged  from  the  inflamed  bowels  of 
the  earth  they  burned  ineradicable  traces  and  buried  be 
neath  their  flow  world  upon  world  of  trivial  cravings  and 
of  petty  cares.  But  he,  when  he  wept,  showed  only  a  flushed 
nose,  and  a  damp  handkerchief.  He  doubtless  later  dried 
this  handkerchief  on  a  line,  for  otherwise  where  could  he 
have  procured  so  many? 

And  all  through  the  days  of  his  exile  he  made  pilgrim 
ages  to  the  officials,  to  all  the  officials  that  counted,  and 
even  to  such  as  he  endowed  with  fancied  authority.  He 
bowed,  he  wept,  he  swore  that  he  was  innocent,  he  im 
plored  them  to  pity  his  youth,  he  promised  on  his  oath 
never  to  open  his  mouth  again  excepting  in  prayer  and 
praise.  And  they  laughed  at  him  even  as  we,  and  they 
called  him  "poor  luckless  little  piggy"  and  yelled  at  him: 

"Hey  there,  piggy!" 

And  he  obediently  responded  to  their  call;  he  thought 
every  time  that  he  would  hear  a  summons  to  return  to  his 


284  THE  MARSEILLAISE 

home,  but  they  were  only  mocking  him.  They  knew,  even 
as  we  that  he  was  innocent,  but  with  his  sufferings  they 
meant  to  intimidate  other  "piggies,"  as  though  they  were 
not  sufficiently  cowardly. 

He  used  to  come  among  us  impelled  by  the  animal  ter 
ror  of  solitude,  but  stern  and  shut  were  our  lips  and  in  vain 
he  sought  the  key.  In  confusion  he  called  us  dear  comrades 
and  friends,  but  we  shook  our  heads  and  said: 

"Look  out!     Someone  might  hear  you!" 

And  he  would  permit  himself  to  throw  a  glance  at  the 
door — the  little  pig  that  he  was.  Was  it  possible  to  remain 
serious?  And  we  laughed,  with  voices  that  had  long  been 
strangers  to  laughter,  while  he,  encouraged  and  comforted, 
sat  down  near  us  and  spoke,  weeping  about  his  dear  little 
books  that  were  left  on  his  table,  about  his  mamma  and  his 
brothers,  of  whom  he  could  not  tell  whether  they  were  still 
living  or  had  died  with  terror  and  anguish. 

In  the  end  we  would  drive  him  away. 

When  the  hunger  strike  had  started  he  was  seized  with 
terror,  an  inexpressibly  comical  terror.  He  was  very  fond 
of  food,  poor  little  piggy,  and  he  was  very  much  afraid  of 
his  dear  comrades,  and  he  was  very  much  afraid  of  the 
authorities.  Distractedly  he  wandered  in  our  midst,  and 
frequently  wiped  his  brow  with  his  handkerchief,  and  it 
was  hard  to  tell  whether  the  moisture  was  perspiration  or 
tears. 

And  irresolutely  he  asked  me: 

"Will  you  starve  a  long  time?" 

"Yes,  a  long  time,"  I  answered  sternly. 

"And  on  the  sly,  will  you  not  eat  something?" 

"Our  mammas  will  send  us  cookies,"  I  assented  seri 
ously.  He  looked  at  me  suspiciously,  shook  his  head  and 
departed  with  a  sigh. 


THE  MARSEILLAISE  285 

The  next  day  he  declared,  green  with  fear  like  a  par 
rot: 

"Dear  comrades,  I,  too,  will  starve  with  you." 

And  we  replied  in  unison: 

"Starve  alone." 

And  he  starved.  We  did  not  believe  it,  even  as  you 
would  not;  we  all  thought  that  he  was  eating  something  on 
the  sly,  and  even  so  thought  the  jailers.  And  when  towards 
the  end  of  the  hunger  strike  he  fell  ill  with  starvation 
typhus,  we  only  shrugged  our  shoulders:  "Poor  little 
piggy'"  But  one  of  us,  he  who  never  laughed,  sullenly 
said: 

"He  is  our  comrade!    Let  us  go  to  him." 

He  was  delirious.  And  pitiful  even  as  all  of  his  life 
was  this  disconnected  delirium.  He  spoke  of  his  beloved 
books,  of  his  mamma  and  of  his  brothers;  he  asked  for 
cookies,  icy  cold,  tasty  cookies,  and  he  swore  that  he  was 
innocent  and  pleaded  for  pardon.  And  he  called  for  his 
country,  he  called  for  dear  France.  Cursed  be  the  weak 
heart  of  man,  he  tore  our  hearts  into  shreds  by  this  call: 
dear  France. 

We  were  all  in  the  ward  as  he  was  breathing  his  last. 
Consciousness  returned  to  him  before  the  moment  of  death. 
He  wras  lying  still,  frail  and  feeble  as  he  wras;  and  still 
were  we  too,  his  comrades,  standing  by  his  side.  And  we, 
every  one  of  us,  heard  him  say: 

"When  I  die,  sing  over  me  the  Marseillaise!" 

"WThat  are  you  saying  ?"  we  exclaimed  shuddering  with 
joy  and  with  gathering  frenzy. 

"When  I  die,  sing  over  me  the  Marseillaise!" 

And  for  the  first  time  it  happened  that  his  eyes  were 
dry  and  we  wept ;  we  wept,  every  one  of  us,  and  our  tears 
glowed  like  the  consuming  fire  before  which  savage  beasts 
flee  in  terror, 


286  THE  MARSEILLAISE 

He  died,  and  we  sang  over  him  the  Marseillaise.  With 
voices  young  and  mighty  we  sang  the  great  hymn  of  free 
dom,  and  the  ocean  chanted  a  stern  accompaniment,  upon 
the  crest  of  his  mighty  waves  bearing  back  to  dear  France 
the  pallor  of  dread  and  the  bloody  crimson  of  hope.  And 
forever  he  became  our  guerdon — that  nonentity  with  the 
body  of  a  rabbit  and  of  a  beast  of  burden  and  with  the 
great  spirit  of  Man.  On  your  knees  before  a  hero,  com 
rades  and  friends! 

We  were  singing.  Down  upon  us  gazed  the  barrels  of 
rifles ;  ominously  clicked  their  triggers ;  menacingly  stretch 
ed  the  points  of  bayonets  towards  our  hearts — and  ever 
more  loudly,  ever  more  joyously  rang  out  the  stern  hymn, 
while  in  the  tender  hands  of  fighters  gently  rocked  the  black 
coffin. 

We  were  singing  the  Marseillaise. 


DIES  IRAE. 


289 


CHANT  THE  FIRST. 
1. 

....This  free  song  of  the  stern  days  of  justice  and  ret 
ribution  I  have  composed  myself,  as  well  as  I  could,  I, 
Geronimo  Pascagna,  a  Sicilian  bandit,  murderer,  highway 
man,  criminal. 

Having  composed  it  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  I  meant 
to  sing  it  loudly,  as  good  songs  should  be  sung,  but  my 
jailer  would  not  allow  it.  My  jailer's  ear  is  overgrown 
with  hair;  it  has  a  strait  and  a  narrow  channel:  fit  for 
words  that  are  untruthful,  sly,  words  that  can  crawl  upon 
their  bellies  like  reptiles.  But  my  words  walk  erect,  they 
have  deep  chests,  broad  backs — ah,  how  painfully  they  tore 
at  the  tender  ear  of  the  jailer  which  was  overgrown  with 
hair! 

"If  the  ear  is  shut,  seek  another  entrance,  Geronimo," 
I  said  to  myself  amicably;  and  I  pondered,  and  I  sought, 
and  finally  I  succeeded  and  found  it,  for  Geronimo  is  no 
fool,  let  me  tell  you.  And  this  is  what  I  found :  I  found 
a  stone.  And  this  is  what  I  did:  I  chiseled  my  song  into 
the  stone,  and  with  the  blows  of  my  wrath  I  set  aflame  its 
icy  heart.  And  when  the  stone  came  to  life  and  glanced 
at  me  with  the  fiery  eyes  of  wrath,  I  cautiously  took  it  away 
and  placed  it  at  the  very  edge  of  the  prison  wall. 

Can  you  not  see  what  I  have  in  mind?  I  am  wise,  I 
figure  that  a  friendly  quake  will  soon  again  set  the  earth 


290  DIES  IRAE 

aquiver,  and  once  again  it  will  destroy  your  city;  and  the 
walls  will  crumble,  and  my  stone  will  drop  and  shatter  the 
jailer's  head.  And  having  shattered  it,  it  will  leave  upon 
his  soft  waxy  blood-grey  brain  the  impress  of  my  song 
of  freedom,  like  the  seal  of  a  king,  like  a  new  command 
ment  of  wrath — and  thus  will  the  jailer  go  down  to  his 
grave. 

I  say,  jailer,  shut  not  your  ear,  for  I  shall  enter  through 
your  skull! 


If  I  am  then  alive,  I  shall  laugh  with  joy;  and  if  I 
chance  to  be  dead,  my  bones  shall  dance  in  their  insecure 
grave.  That  will  be  a  merry  Tarantella! 

Can  you  say  upon  your  oath  that  such  things  can 
never  be?  The  same  quake  might  cast  me  back  upon  the 
face  of  the  earth:  my  rotting  coffin,  my  decayed  flesh,  my 
whole  body,  dead  and  buried  for  keeps,  tightly  clamped 
down.  For  such  things  have  happened  upon  great  days: 
the  earth  opening  up  about  the  cemeteries,  the  still  coffins 
crawling  out  into  the  light. 

Those  still  coffins,  uninvited  guests  at  the  banquet! 


These  be  the  names  of  the  comrades  with  whom  I 
made  friends  in  those  fleeting  hours:  Pascale,  a  professor; 
Giuseppe,  Pincio,  Alba.  They  were  shot  by  firing  squads. 
There  was  also  another  one,  young,  obliging,  and  so  hand 
some.  It  was  a  pity  to  look  at  him.  I  esteemed  him  as  a 
son,  he  reverenced  me  as  a  father,  but  I  did  not  know  his 
name.  I  had  not  chanced  to  ask  him,  or  perhaps  I  have 
forgotten  it.  He,  too,  was  shot  by  the  soldiers.  There  may 


DIES  IRAE  2tt 

I 

have  been  one  or  two  more,  also  friends,  I  do  not  remem- 
•  her  them.  When  the  youngster  was  being  put  to  death, 
|  I  did  not  run  far  away,  I  hid  right  here,  back  of  the  wall 

—  now   crumbled  —  near  the  trampled  cactus.     I   saw  and 

heard  everything.  And  when  I  started  to  leave,  the  trampled 
|  cactus  pierced  me  with  its  thorn.  Was  it  not  planted  near 

the  wall  to  keep  away  the  thieves?    How  faithful  are  the 

servants  of  the  rich! 


The  firing  squad  put  them  to  death.  Remember  the 
names  which  I  have  mentioned;  and  with  regard  to  those 
whom  I  have  not  mentioned  by  name,  remember  merely 
that  they  were  put  to  death.  But  don't  go  and  make  a  sign 
of  the  cross  upon  your  brow,  or  worse  than  that  —  don't 
go  and  order  a  requiem  mass  —  they  did  not  like  such  things. 
Honor  the  dead  with  the  silence  of  truth,  and  if  you  must 
lie,  lie  in  some  merrier  fashion,  but  never  by  saying  mass  : 
they  did  not  like  that. 


That  first  quake  that  destroyed  the  prison  and  the  city 
had  a  voice  of  rare  power  and  of  queer,  superhuman 
dignity:  it  roared  from  below,  from  beneath  the  ground, 
it  was  vast  and  hoarse  and  menacing ;  and  everything  shook 
and  crumbled.  And  ere  I  grasped  what  was  going  on,  I 
knew  that  all  was  over,  that  it  was  perhaps  the  end  of  the 
earth.  But  I  was  not  particularly  frightened:  why  should 
I  be  especially  frightened  even  if  it  were  the  end  of  the 
world?  Long  did  he  roar,  that  deaf  subterranean  trum 
peter. 

And  all  at  once  politely  opened  the  door. 


292  DIES  IRAE 

6. 

I  had  sat  a  long  time  in  prison,  without  hope.  I  had 
tried  to  flee  and  failed.  Nor  could  you  have  managed  to 
escape,  for  that  accursed  prison  was  very  well  built. 

And  I  had  become  accustomed  to  the  iron  of  the  bars 
and  to  the  stone  of  the  walls,  and  they  seemed  to  me  eter 
nal,  and  he  who  had  built  them  the  strongest  in  the  world. 
And  it  was  no  use  to  think  whether  he  was  just  or  not,  so 
strong  and  eternal  he  was.  Even  in  my  dreams  I  saw  no 
freedom — I  did  not  believe,  expect  or  feel  it.  And  I  feared 
to  call  it.  It  is  perilous  to  call  freedom;  while  you  keep 
still,  you  may  live;  but  call  freedom  once,  ever  so  softly, 
you  must  either  gain  it  or  die.  This  is  true,  so  said  Pascale, 
the  professor. 

And  thus  without  hope  I  sat  in  prison,  and  suddenly 
opened  the  door.  Politely  and  of  its  own  accord.  At  any 
rate  it  was  no  human  hand  that  opened  it. 

7. 

The  streets  were  in  ruins,  in  a  terrible  chaos.  All  the 
material  of  which  people  build  was  resolved  to  its  elements 
and  lay  as  it  had  been  in  the  beginning.  The  houses  were 
crumbling,  bursting,  reeling  like  drunken,  squatting  down 
upon  the  ground,  on  their  own  crushed  legs.  Others  were 
sulkily  casting  themsleves  down  upon  the  ground,  with 
their  heads  upon  the  pavement — crash !  And  opened  were 
the  little  boxes  in  which  human  beings  live — pretty  little 
boxes,  all  plastered  with  paper.  The  pictures  still  hung  on 
the  walls,  but  the  people  were  no  more;  they  had  been 
thrown  out,  they  were  lying  beneath  masses  of  stone.  And 
the  earth  was  twitching  convulsively — for,  you  must  know 
that  the  subterranean  trumpeter  had  started  to  roar  again, 


DIES  IRAE  293 

that  deaf  devil  who  can  never  have  enough  noise  because 
he  is  so  deaf.  Sweet,  painstaking,  gigantic  devil ! 

But  I  was  free  and  I  did  not  understand  it  yet.  I  hesi 
tated  to  walk  away  from  that  accursed  prison.  I  was  stand 
ing  there,  blinking  stupidly  at  the  ruins.  And  the  comrades 
had  also  assembled,  none  attempting  to  leave,  crowding  dis 
tractedly,  like  the  children  about  the  figure  of  a  dissipated, 
drunken  mother  that  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  A  fine 
mother,  indeed! 

Suddenly  Pascale,  the  professor,  said: 

"Look !" 

One  of  the  walls  which  we  had  deemed  eternal  had 
burst  in  two;  and  the  window,  with  its  iron  bars,  had  split 
in  two  as  well.  The  iron  was  twisted  and  torn  like  a  rotten 
rag — think  of  it,  the  iron!  In  my  hands  it  had  not  even 
rattled,  it  had  pretended  to  be  eternal,  the  most  powerful 
thing  on  earth,  and  now  it  was  not  worth  to  be  spat  upon, 
— the  iron,  think  of  it! 

Then  I,  and  the  rest  of  us,  understood  that  we  were 
free. 

8. 

Free! 

9. 

It  is  harder  for  you  to  bend  a  grass  blade  than  for 
him  to  bend  three  iron  rails  one  atop  the  other.  Three  or  a 
hundred,  it  is  all  the  same  to  him.  It  is  more  difficult  for 
you  to  raise  a  cup  of  water  to  your  lips  than  for  him  to 
raise  a  sea  of  water,  to  shake  it  up,  to  lift  the  dregs  there 
of  and  to  cast  them  out  upon  the  shore;  to  bring  the  cold 
to  boiling.  It  is  harder  for  you  to  gnaw  through  a  piece 


294  DIES  IRAE 

of  sugar  than  for  him  to  gnaw  through  a  mountain.  It  is 
more  difficult  for  you  to  tear  a  thin  and  rotting  thread  than 
for  him  to  break  three  wire  ropes  twisted  into  one  braid. 
You  will  perspire  and  flush  with  exertion  before  you  man 
age  to  stir  up  an  anthill  with  your  stick — and  he  with  one 
push  destroys  your  city.  He  has  picked  up  an  iron  steam 
ship  as  you  with  your  hand  pick  up  a  tiny  pebble,  and  has 
cast  it  ashore — have  you  ever  seen  the  like  of  such  strength  ? 

10. 

All  that  had  been  open  he  has  shut;  the  door  of  your 
house  has  grown  into  its  walls,  and  together  they  have 
choked  you:  your  door,  your  walls,  your  ceiling.  And  he 
likewise  has  opened  the  doors  of  the  prison  which  you  had 
shut  so  carefully. 

You,  rich  man,  whom  I  hate! 

11. 

If  I  gather  from  all  over  the  world  all  the  good  words 
which  people  use,  all  the  tender  sayings,  all  the  ringing 
songs  and  fling  them  all  into  the  joyous  air; 

If  I  gather  all  the  smiles  of  children,  the  laughter  of 
women  whom  none  has  yet  wronged,  the  caresses  of  grey- 
haired  mothers,  the  faithful  handshakes  of  a  friend — and 
weave  of  them  all  an  incorruptible  wreath  for  some  one 
beautiful  head; 

If  I  pass  over  the  face  of  the  earth  and  garner  all  the 
flowers  that  grow  upon  it:  in  the  forests  and  in  the  fields, 
in  the  meadows  and  in  the  gardens  of  the  rich,  in  the  depths 
of  the  waters,  upon  the  azure  bottom  of  the  ocean;  if  I 
gather  all  the  precious  sparkling  stones,  bringing  them  forth 
out  of  hidden  crevices,  out  of  the  gloomy  depths  of  mines, 


DIES  IRAE  295 

tearing  them  from  the  crowns  of  kings  and  from  the  ears 
of  the  rich — and  pile  them  all,  the  stones  and  the  flowers, 
into  one  radiant  mountain; 

If  I  gather  all  the  fires  that  burn  in  the  universe,  all 
the  lights,  all  the  rays,  all  the  flashes,  flares  and  silent 
glows,  and  in  the  glare  of  one  mighty  conflagration  illumine 
the  quaking  worlds; 

Even  then  I  shall  be  unable  to  name  thee,  to  crown 
thee,  to  laud  thee — O  Freedom! 

12. 

Freedom! 

13. 

Over  my  head  was  the  sky,  and  the  sky  is  always  free, 
always  open  to  the  winds  and  to  the  movement  of  the 
clouds ;  under  my  feet  was  the  road,  and  the  road  is  always 
free;  it  was  made  to  walk  on,  it  was  made  for  the  feet 
to  move  over  its  surface,  going  back  and  forth,  leaving  one 
spot  and  finding  another.  The  road  is  the  sweetheart  of 
him  who  is  free;  you  have  to  kiss  it  on  meeting,  to  weep 
over  it  on  parting. 

And  when  my  feet  began  to  move  upon  the  road,  I 
thought  that  a  miracle  had  occurred.  I  looked,  and  Pascale's 
feet  were  also  moving,  the  professor!  I  looked,  and  the 
youngster  was  also  moving  with  youthful  feet,  hurrying, 
stumbling,  and  suddenly  he  ran. 

"Whither?" 

But  Pascale  sternly  reproved  me. 

"Don't  throw  questions  at  him ;  you'll  break  his  limbs. 
For  you  and  I  are  old,  Geronimo." 

And  we  wept.  And  suddenly  the  deaf  trumpeter  roared 
out  aoew. 


296 


CHANT  THE  SECOND. 
1. 

A  long  time  we  walked  about  the  city  and  saw  much 
that  was  striking,  strange  and  sinister. 

2. 

Neither  can  you  shut  in  the  fire — I  was  saying  this,  I, 
Geronimo  Pascagna.  If  you  would  be  at  peace,  put  it  out 
altogether,  but  do  not  lock  it  up  in  stone,  in  iron  or  in 
glass;  it  will  escape,  and  your  strongly  built  house  will 
come  to  a  bad  end.  When  your  mighty  house  is  fallen, 
and  your  life  is  extinct,  it  alone  will  burn,  retaining  the 
heat  and  the  blazing  ruddiness  and  all  the  force  of  the 
flame.  It  may  lie  awhile  on  the  ground,  it  may  pretend 
even  to  be  dead;  then  it  will  lift  its  head  upon  a  slender 
neck  and  look  about — to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  forward 
and  backward.  And  it  will  leap.  And  it  will  hide  again, 
and  will  look  again,  it  will  straighten  up,  throw  back  its 
head,  and  suddenly  it  will  grow  terribly  stout. 

And  it  will  no  longer  have  one  head  upon  one  slender 
neck :  it  will  have  thousands.  And  it  will  no  longer  crawl 
slowly,  it  will  run,  it  will  make  gigantic  bounds.  It  had 
been  silent,  now  it  is  singing,  whistling,  yelling,  giving 
orders  to  stone  and  to  iron,  driving  all  from  its  path. 

And  suddenly  it  will  begin  to  circle. 


DIES  IRAE  297 


We  saw  more  dead  people  than  living;  and  the  dead 
were  calm ;  they  did  not  know  what  had  happened  to  them, 
and  they  were  calm.  But  what  about  the  living?  Just  think 
what  a  ridiculous  thing  was  told  us  by  a  madman  for 
whom,  too,  in  those  days  of  stern  equality  the  door  had 
opened ! 

Do  you  think  he  was  amazed  ?  He  looked  on  attentively 
and  benignly,  and  the  grey  stubble  on  his  yellow  face 
bristled  with  proud  joy— as  though  he  had  done  it  all  him 
self.  I  do  not  like  madmen,  and  was  going  to  walk  past 
him,  but  Pascale,  the  professor,  stopped  me,  and  respect 
fully  asked  the  proud  madman: 

"What  makes  you  so  pleased,  signer?" 

Pascale  was  far  from  being  short  of  stature,  but  the 
madman  searched  for  him  a  long  time  with  his  eyes,  like  for 
a  grain  of  sand  that  has  suddenly  spoken  out  aloud  from 
amidst  of  a  sand  heap,  and  finally  he  discovered  him.  And 
hardly  parting  his  lips — so  proud  was  he — he  repeated  the 
question : 

"What  makes  me  so  pleased?" 

And  he  waved  his  hand  majestically  and  said: 

"This  is  perfect  order.  We  have  so  long  craved  for 
order." 

He  called  that  order!  I  laughed  out  aloud,  but  just 
at  that  moment  a  corpulent  and  altogether  insane  monk 
came  up,  and  proved  even  more  ridiculous. 

4. 

For  a  long  time  they  played  their  comedy  among  the 
ruins,  the  lunatic  and  the  monk,  while  we  sat  on  a  heap  of 
stones,  laughing  and  encouraging  them,  shouting  "bravo." 


298  DIES  IRAE 

"Fraud!     I  have  been  deceived!"  cried  the  fat  monk. 

He  was  so  fat,  I  don't  think  you've  ever  seen  any  one 
as  fat.  It  was  repulsive  to  watch  him,  the  yellow  fat  of 
his  cheeks  and  of  his  belly  quivered  and  shook  so  with 
wrath  and  fear. 

"There's  perfect  order  for  you !"  cried  the  lunatic  ap 
provingly,  hardly  deigning  to  part  his  lips. 

"Fraud!"  yelled  the  monk. 

And  suddenly  he  commenced  to  curse  God.  The  monk ! 
Think  of  it! 


5. 


6. 


He  assured  us  all  that  God  had  deceived  him  and  he 
wept.  He  swore  like  a  crooked  gambler  that  this  was  poor 
recompense  for  his  prayers  and  his  faith.  He  stamped  his 
feet  and  he  cursed  like  a  mule  driver  who  comes  out  of  a 
#in  mill  and  suddenly  discovers  that  his  mules  had  scat 
tered  to  the  four  winds. 

And  suddenly  Pascale,  the  profesor,  lost  his  temper. 
He  demanded  that  I  give  him  my  knife  and  said  to  the 
monk  who  had  sat  down  for  a  rest  after  his  outburst  of 
curses : 

"Listen,  in  a  minute  I  will  slit  your  belly,  and  if  I  find 
there  but  one  drop  of  wine  or  one  atom  of  a  pullet.." 

"And  if  you  don't?"  angrily  retorted  the  monk. 

"Then  we  shall  count  you  among  the  saints.  Hold  his 
legs,  Geronimo!" 


DIES  IRAE  299 

The  monk  was  frightened  and  departed  mumbling: 
"And   I   thought  you  were   Christians!     Blasphemy! 
Blasphemy !" 

But  the  lunatic  gazed  after  him  benignly  and  spoke 
approvingly : 

"This  is  what  I  call  perfect  order.  We  have  been  so 
long  waiting  for  perfect  order." 

7. 

And  we  walked  a  long  time  about  the  city  and  saw 
many  odd  things.  But  the  day  was  short,  and  the  night 
fell  upon  earth  earlier  than  ever  before;  and  when  the 
firing  squad  was  killing  Pascale,  the  soldiers  had  lighted 
their  torches. 


8. 


When  Pascale  was  put  against  the  wall,  against  the 
portion  of  it  which  had  remained  uninjured,  and  the  sol 
diers  raised  their  rifles,  the  officer  said  to  him: 

"You  will  die  in  a  moment.  Tell  me  why  are  you  not 
afraid?  That  which  has  happened  is  terrible,  and  we  are 
all  pale  with  horror,  but  you  are  not.  Why  is  that?" 

Pascale  was  silent ;  he  waited  for  the  officer  to  ask  him 
more  questions  so  that  he  might  reply  to  all  of  them  in  one. 

"And  whence  comes  your  boldness :  to  stoop  and  to 
take  that  which  belongs  to  others  at  a  time  when  people 
in  terror  forget  even  themselves  and  their  children?  And 
are  you  not  sorry  for  those  women  and  children  who  have 
perished?  We  have  seen  cats  that  have  lost  their  mind 
through  terror,  and  you  are  a  human  being.  I  will  have 
you  shot  instantly." 


300  DIES  1RAE 

This  was  well  spoken,  but  our  Pascale  could  speak 
every  bit  as  well.  He  has  been  shot  dead.  He  is  dead, 
but  some  day  when  all  the  dead  arise  you  will  hear  his 
speech,  and  you  will  shed  tears,  if  by  that  time  all  the 
tears  are  not  exhausted,  O  Man. 

He  said: 

"I  take  that  which  is  another's  because  I  have  rlothing 
that  is  my  own.  I  took  the  raiment  off  a  dead  rrfan  in  order 
to  clothe  my  living  flesh,  but  you  have  seen  me  do  it,  and 
so  you  have  stripped  me;  and  now  I  stand  naked  in  front 
of  your  rifles.  Soldiers,  fire!" 

But  the  officer  did  not  suffer  them  to  fire  and  asked 
him  to  speak  further. 


9. 


"Naked  I  stand  in  front  of  your  rifles  and  fear  noth 
ing,  not  even  your  rifles.  But  you  are  pale  with  fear,  and 
you  fear  everything,  even  your  own  rifles,  even  my  naked 
body.  When  the  quake  was  heard,  it  destroyed  and  killed 
your  city,  your  fortunes,  your  children  and  wives — but  it 
opened  a  prison  for  me.  What  then  shall  I  fear?  I  have 
nothing  of  my  own  upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  I  am 
naked. 


10. 


"And  if  the  whole  earth  crumbled  into  ruin,  and  the 
very  beasts  howled  with  horror,  and  the  fish  found  a  voice 
to  express  their  grief,  and  the  birds  fell  to  the  ground  with 
dread,  even  then  I  would  not  fear.  For  all  others  it  means 
the  ruin  of  the  earth,  for  me  it  opens  the  doors  of  a  pri 
son.  What  then  shall  I  fear?  I  am  naked. 


DIES  IRAE  301 

11. 

"And  if  the  universe  crumbled,  with  heaven  and  hell, 
and  horror  were  enthroned  over  the  infinity  of  living  crea 
tures,  even  then  I  would  know  no  fear.  For  all  it  would 
be  the  end  of  the  universe,  for  me  the  opening  of  a  prison. 
What  then  shall  I  fear?  I  am  naked. 


12. 


"And  now,  when  with  one  salvo  of  your  rifles  you  will 
destroy  for  me  the  earth  and  the  universe,  even  now  I 
know  no  fear.  For  all  of  you  it  will  be  the  destruction  and 
the  fall  of  a  human  body,  but  for  me  a  prison  will  open  its 
gates.  Soldiers,  fire!  I  am  naked." 

13. 

The  torches  blazed.  It  was  the  shortest  day  which  I 
had  ever  seen.  Night  fell  upon  the  earth  more  quickly  than 
ever  before. 

"It  is  your  turn  now,"  ordered  the  officer,  when  Pas- 
cale,  the  professor,  had  fallen. 

True,  I  had  not  been  caught  in  any  wrongdoing,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  kill  me  for.  But  can  you  argue  with 
them?  And  so  I  stood  up.  And  I  lamented  the  night. 
Do  you  understand  me?  the  night!  Here  the  torches  and 
the  fires  were  ruining  it,  and  there,  behind  the  torches  and 
the  fire,  it  stood  out  strong,  and  firm,  and  dark  as  the 
nights  of  my  youth.  I  love  the  night,  for  then  I  do  not 
see  myself  and  can  think  what  I  will.  The  day  reaches  my 
garments,  but  can  go  no  further.  It  stops  at  the  darkness 
of  my  body  and  turns  blind.  But  the  night  reaches  my 
very  heart.  That  is  why  it  is  so  easy  to  love  at  night ;  any- 


302  DIES  IRAE 

body  will  tell  you  that.  Ah,  to  spend  only  one  hour  in  the 
shade  of  the  faithful,  of  the  black  and  beautiful  night,  only 
one  hour.  But  can  you  argue  with  them?  So  I  stood  up. 

But  it  is  well  to  love  also  in  the  day  time,  when  the 
sun  is  shining.  Love  itself  is  like  the  night,  it  reaches  the 
heart,  don't  you  see.  And  in  love  you  fail  to  see  your  own 
self,  even  as  in  the  midst  of  night.  And  if  you  only  look 
into  its  eyes — straight  into  its  black  eyes — and  look  with 
out  tearing  your  gaze  away.... 

Suddenly  for  some  reason  the  officer  shouted  angrily 
at  the  soldier  and  snapped  at  me: 

"Get  out  of  here !" 


14. 


Another  day  passed.  And  on  that  day  the  soldiers 
shot  that  youngster  who  had  called  me  father. 

15. 

Night  sank  upon  the  earth  and  I  departed  from  that 
city  of  the  dead. 

16. 

Dies  irae — the  day  of  wrath,  the  day  of  vengeance 
and  of  stern  retribution,  the  day  of  Horror  and  of  Death. 

17. 

...That  procession  which  I  had  watched  from  behind 
the  wall  was  a  strange  and  a  terrible  sight.  They  were 
bearing  the  statues  of  their  saints,  but  did  not  know 
whether  to  raise  them  still  higher  over  their  heads  or  to 


DIES  IRAE  303 

cast  them  upon  the  ground,  trampling  the  fragments  under 
foot.  Some  were  still  cursing,  while  others  were  already 
saying  their  prayers,  but  they  walked  on  together,  the  chil 
dren  of  the  same  father  and  the  same  mother,  or  Horror 
and  of  Death.  They  leaped  over  the  crevices  and  dis 
appeared  in  abysses.  And  the  saints  reeled  like  drunkards. 
Dies  irae....  Some  were  singing,  others  were  weeping, 
and  still  others  were  laughing.  Some  howled  like  lunatics. 
And  they  were  waving  their  hands,  and  all  were  in  a  hurry. 
The  fat-bellied  monks  were  running.  From  whom  were 
they  running  away?  Not  a  soul  was  seen  behind  them. 
Meekly  lolled  the  ruins  in  the  warm  glow  of  the  sun,  and 
the  fire  was  disappearing  into  the  ground,  smoking  wearily. 

18. 

From  whom  were  they  fleeing?  There  was  not  a  soul 
behind  them. 

19. 

You  barely  touched  a  tree,  and  a  ripe  orange  fell  at 
your  feet.  First  one,  then  another,  a  third...  The  crop  bids 
fair  to  be  fine.  A  good  orange  is  like  a  little  sun,  and  when 
there  is  an  abundance  of  them,  you  feel  like  smiling,  as 
though  the  sun  shone  brightly.  And  the  leaves  are  so  dark, 
just  like  the  night  back  of  the  sun.  No,  they  are  green, 
c*ark  green.  Why  are  you  telling  untruths,  Geronimo? 

But  how  cautious  is  that  deaf  devil,  that  subterranean 
trumpeter,  who  is  never  content  because  of  his  deafness: 
he  has  destroyed  a  city,  but  has  left  an  orange  suspended 
on  a  branch,  to  wait  for  Geronimo.  You  barely  touch  the 
tree,  and  a  ripe  orange  drops  at  your  feet.  First  one,  then 
another,  then  a  third...  They  will  be  taken  overseas  to 


304  DIES  IRAE 

strange  lands.  And  in  those  lands,  where  reign  the  cold 
and  the  fogs,  people  will  look  at  them  and  say :  "Yes,  there 
is  a  sun  for  you!" 

20. 

Pascale,  the  professor, — we  called  him  "il  professore" 
because  he  was  so  wise,  he  could  write  verses,  and  he  dis 
coursed  so  nobly  on  all  sorts  of  subjects.  He  is  dead. 

21. 

Why  am  I  terrified  ?  Why  do  I  walk  faster  and  faster  ? 
1  had  been  afraid  there... 


22. 


I  never  knew  that  my  feet  so  loved  to  walk.  They 
love  every  step  which  they  make.  They  part  so  sadly  with 
every  step ;  they  seem  to  want  to  turn  back.  And  so  greedy 
are  they  that  the  longest  road  seems  short  to  them,  that  the 
widest  road  seems  narrow.  They  regret — fancy! — that 
they  cannot  at  once  walk  backward  and  forward,  to  the 
right  and  to  the  left.  Let  them  have  their  will  and  they 
will  cover  the  earth  with  their  traces,  not  leaving  a  patch : 
and  still  they  would  seek  more. 

And  another  thing  I  did  not  know:  I  did  not  know 
about  my  eyes  that  they  can  breathe. 

Afar  off  I  see  the  ocean. 


23. 


What  else  can  I  tell  you?    I  was  seized  by  the  gen 
darmes. 


DIES  IRAE  305. 

24. 

Once  more  thou  hast  locked  the  doors  of  my  prison, 

0  Man!     When  didst  thou  have  time  to  build  it?    Still  in 
ruins  lies  thy  house,  the  bones  of  thy  children  are  not  yet 
bare  in  the  grave,  but  thou  art  already  at  work,  tapping 
with  thy  hammer,  patching  together  with  cement  the  obedi 
ent  stone,  rearing  before  thy  face  the  obedient  iron.    How 
fast  dost  thou  build  thy  prisons,  O  Man! 

Still  in  ruins  are  thy  churches,  bu  thy  prison  is  all 
finished. 

Still  shaking  with  terror  are  thy  hands,  but  already 
they  grasp  the  key,  and  rattle  the  lock,  and  slip  the  bolt. 
Thou  art  a  musician:  to  the  jingle  of  gold  thou  requirest 
the  accompanying  rattle  of  fetters —  let  that  be  the  bass. 

Grim  death  is  still  in  thy  blanched  nostrils,  and  already 
thou  art  sniffing  at  something,  turning  thy  nose  this  way 
and  that  way.  How  fast  buildest  thou  thy  prisons,  O  Man ! 

25. 

The  iron  does  not  even  rattle — so  strong  it  is.  And  it 
is  cold  to  the  touch  like  someone's  icy  heart.  Silent  is 
?lso  the  stone  of  the  walls — so  proud  it  is,  so  everlasting 
and  mighty.  At  the  appointed  time  comes  the  jailer  and 
flings  at  me  my  food  like  at  a  savage  beast.  And  I  show 
my  teeth — why  should  I  not  show  my  teeth?  I  am  starved 
and  naked.  And  the  clock  is  striking. 

Art  thou  content,  O  Man,  my  master? 

26. 

But  I  do  not  believe  in  thy  prison,  O  Man,  my  master ! 

1  do  not  believe  in  thy  iron;  I  do  not  believe  in  thy  stone, 


306  DIES  1RAE 

in  thy  power,  O  Man,  my  master !  That  which  I  have  once 
seen  destroyed,  shall  never  be  knit  together  again. 

Thus  would  have  spoken  even  Pascale,  the  professor. 

27. 

Set  thy  clock  a-going,  it  marks  well  the  time  until  it 
stops.  Rattle  thy  keys,  for  even  thy  paradise  thou  hast 
shut  with  lock  and  key.  Rattle  thy  keys  and  shut  the  door, 
they  shut  well  while  there  is  a  door.  And  walk  around 
cautiously. 

And  when  all  is  still,  thou  wilt  say:  it  is  well  now,  it 
is  quite  still  now.  And  thou  wilt  lie  down  to  sleep.  It  is 
quite  still  now,  thou  wilt  say,  but  I  hear  how  he  is  gnawing 
at  the  iron  with  his  teeth.  But  thou  wilt  say  that  the  iron 
is  too  strong  for  him,  and  thou  wilt  lie  down  to  sleep.  And 
when  thou  hast  fallen  asleep,  holding  tight  thy  keys  in  thy 
happy  hands,  suddenly  the  subterranean  trumpeter  will  roar 
out  loudly,  awaking  thee  with  his  thunder,  raising  thee  to 
thy  feet  with  the  force  of  terror,  holding  thee  erect  with 
a  mighty  arm:  so  that  dying  thou  shalt  see  death.  Wide 
as  the  day  will  open  thy  eyes;  terror  will  tear  them  wide 
open.  Ears  will  come  to  thy  heart,  so  that  dying  thou  shalt 
hear  death. 

And  thy  clock  will  stop. 

28. 
Freedom ! 


. 


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